The Writing on the Wall
by grannysknitting
Summary: AU fic - slash - unconnected to any of my previous stories. Lestrade notices John behaving oddly at a crime scene. Unfortunately so does Mycroft. What is it about the people living at 221B? Rating gone up due to chapter 3 - read the warning!
1. Minefield

**The Writing on the Wall (Sherlock BBC Fanfic)**

**Alternate Universe**

November 28th, 18:40

Current Mood: mellow

Current Music: spooky

**AN - This is unconnected to my other works in this fandom.******

**Warnings for horror, mild gore and swearing and slash******

***

Geoffrey Lestrade had been on the job long enough to have seen his fair share of 'occult' crimes. Everything from teenage pranksters making a drunken attempt to raise the devil, to poisoned tea leaves in a psychic convention to people who'd actually made a good faith effort to raise the dead. (That one had been particularly nasty as they'd dug up several corpses who hadn't been in the best condition to start with.)

While he never enjoyed walking into a space that had been used for 'magic' he'd never attended a crime scene that had raised the hairs on the back of his neck the way this one had. Even Anderson, the world's least empathic forensic scientist, had displayed unease as he'd moved around the scene, looking for evidence beyond the obvious. Of course, there was the dead body in the centre to process still, but she could wait a moment longer. Lestrade had called in the consulting nuisance from 221B Baker Street, and Sherlock Holmes would have the sociopathic equivalent of a tantrum if the scene was too badly disturbed. Not that it wasn't disturbing enough - whoever she'd been, she'd entered the ritual enacted here alive and died as a result of whatever had gone on.

"Freak and his shadow are here," Sally Donovan's voice crackled over the radio and even Anderson jumped and looked around nervously. Lestrade licked his lips and stuffed his hands in his pockets, hoping that his nervousness would not be too obvious when Sherlock arrived. He made a mental note to talk to Sally again about the way she addressed Dr Watson. Whatever Sherlock had done to annoy her should not wash over onto the civilian who had been a calming and moderating influence on the man that Geoff had such high hopes for. Since John Watson arrived on the scene, Geoff could now expect to call on Sherlock at any time of the day or night and find him sober. He'd seen the look on Sherlock's face when John had mistakenly defended him against that spurious drugs bust; the thin genius had clearly been embarrassed about the whole thing - already he'd been seeking the good opinion of his new flatmate, something that was positively unprecedented.

"Lestrade," Sherlock's voice was jarring in a scene that seemed to demand quiet and Geoff winced, noting that Sherlock did too, swallowing whatever he'd been about to say and advancing onto the scene carefully. Almost at once, Geoff noticed there was something wrong. It was as if the tense atmosphere was also affecting Sherlock because he seemed very... hesitant as he moved about, instead of his usual 'bull in a china shop' routine.

Lestrade looked back to see what John thought of all this and felt his scalp crawling when he realised the doctor was standing just inside the door, following something that didn't exist with his eyes. It was like watching someone trace lines that had been painted on the walls, floor and ceiling with their eyes - only Lestrade couldn't see what it was that John was tracing at all. Unable to take his eyes away, he watched in silent trepidation as John stepped slowly and carefully - like a man negotiating a mine field, and that little image just wouldn't quit once he'd thought of it - avoiding obstacles and spots that were invisible to Geoff. The atmosphere at the crime scene became quite oppressive and just as Geoff was about to declare some sort of emergency and evacuate everyone, John Watson stopped, reached out, and scuffed his toe in a straight line through nothing.

Instantly the atmosphere cleared. It was as if everyone had taken a deep breath simultaneously while the sun came out from behind the storm clouds hanging over them. Sherlock sped up suddenly in the corner of Lestrade's eye and he turned his head to check that the consulting detective was ok. When he glanced back at John the doctor was by the door again, hands in pockets, looking as if he hadn't moved. With a slight shock, Geoff realised that no one else had seen the man's actions - he was the only witness. John met his eyes with a silent 'yes? You ok?' look that the doctor used when assessing a potential patient and Lestrade nodded once before turning to watch Sherlock pour over the crime scene with his usual abandon.

***

"What I don't understand," John says as they plod up the stairs, Sherlock in the lead and Lestrade at his heels. Sherlock had collected several samples that had Anderson crying foul until John had made the suggestion that Lestrade maintain chain of custody by coming back to Baker Street with them, "Is why they left so much behind. There were a lot of objects there that would have been quite important as stage dressing if nothing else. If these guys want to repeat this ritual then they'll want to have the same props as before. I mean, they left the knife behind for heaven's sake! Of everything they should have taken, the knife was most important!"

"And you know this how?" Geoff asked, edging closer to Sherlock as he did, uneasy still with the doctor's actions at the crime scene.

"I watch telly, Inspector," the answer was almost believable if you hadn't seen the deliberate movements of only an hour ago, "And I'm not above reading trashy fiction either."

"That is true," Sherlock confirmed, "I make him keep it upstairs though. I wouldn't want anyone to think _I_ read such things."

"Because you're not eccentric enough as it is," John agreed mildly and Geoff choked back a laugh. Whatever had happened back there, John was still John, able to put Sherlock into place with the mildest of reprimands.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock's voice went from pleasant to razor sharp in a matter of seconds and Geoff found himself face to face with Mycroft Holmes - someone he'd only met once after digging the younger Holmes and his friend out of the rubble of the swimming pool. There was a woman with him, texting away on her phone. Geoff thought she might be beautiful if her face was anything other than blank. Upon their entry she glanced up and reached over, drawing Sherlock to her side with a slender hand. Sherlock seemed oddly unable to stop her, no matter that he'd squirmed in protest at first.

"I've packed your things, Watson. You are to leave this house at once and never return," Mycroft's announcement was shocking enough to silence Sherlock and Geoff gaped at him in surprise before turning to look at John who still stood at the door. There was a faintly cold expression on his face, completely out of place with the man Lestrade had thought he was beginning to know.

"Nonsense, John, you're staying here," Sherlock said, still within the woman's grip. His voice was shaking and Lestrade sent him a worried look, noting the pale complexion and drawn look on his face.

"Let him go," there was a definite tone of command in John's voice; "You're hurting him."

The woman with her hand around Sherlock's arm lets go abruptly, stepping back. Sherlock gasps and wobbles and Lestrade grabs for him, props him up, seeing the way colour flushes back into the hand of the arm that had been grabbed and realising her grip had been so tight that she had cut the blood flow off. John also moves forward to help but things take a turn from odd to outright bizarre when Mycroft leaps forward and attempts to bash John's head in with his umbrella. The former soldier catches it with both hands and holds it still, meeting Mycroft's gaze calmly.

"I would never hurt him," John says softly, "I want to check that she didn't pinch the nerve."

"Leave and never return," Mycroft replies, seeming not to hear when his brother actually _whimpers_ the words 'no' and 'John, please'. John does though; Geoff can see it in his eyes. They flicker over the flat, its occupants and then over to Sherlock.

"You do realise you can't force me to leave," he tells Mycroft quietly, "If Sherlock wants me here, then here I stay."

"Stay," Sherlock echoes, unable, it seems to get his feet under him. His eyes are locked on John with the intensity that Geoff had once seen in a man begging his fatally injured wife to live. It seems that the events that led to the blown-up-swimming-pool had changed things between the two men.

"As you wish," John smiled over at them and took the umbrella from Mycroft's hands with all the effort one would expend on taking a toothpick from the packet. He propped it on the wall and took Sherlock from Geoff, or to be accurate, caught him when he used Geoff as a springboard, "Let me see that arm, Sherlock."

"Get out," Sherlock snarled at his brother, "Don't ever come back."

"Sherlock, you don't understand. Watson is a... magician, for want of a better description. He performed magic at that crime scene today - is in fact capable of recreating that very scene single handed. He's a danger to you," Mycroft's tone was condescending to say the least and even Lestrade knew that was not the way to get Sherlock to give in.

"Get out," Sherlock repeated, "Don't ever come back."

When the front door slammed behind the offended older brother and his arm pinching assistant, John sighed and lowered Sherlock into a chair.

"This needs a poultice to correct the nerve damage. She doesn't know her own strength," he complained. Sherlock shot him a dark look.

"After all this time, you insist on believing the best about him and his people," he retorted, raising his voice as John went into the kitchen, "She knew exactly what she was doing."

"So, the remarks about the crime scene weren't based on trashy fiction?" Lestrade asked as he sat in an empty armchair while John situated the herbal smelling poultice and Sherlock curled around the smaller man on the couch.

"Only partly," John replied with a smile, "You saw me cut the line at the crime scene, didn't you?"

"I did," Geoff replied, "I thought you were mad until the atmosphere improved. But what was the last few minutes in aid of?"

"People like me are classed as a danger to people like you," John sighed, "It's a hold over from the witch trials."

"You're a witch?" Geoff spluttered and John laughed while Sherlock glared at the DI. Whatever he'd said was apparently wrong and possibly rude if Sherlock's expression was anything to go by.

"No, I'm not," John replied, "I'm a mage. I'm much more powerful than a witch, or her male counterpart, a warlock. It's considered something of an insult to call a male a witch."

"Sorry," Geoff apologised at once, though he could tell John didn't mind the mistake, which had been based in ignorance, "So I'm guessing that there is some sort of society... an underground one... that practices magic in the area?"

"It's an international community," John agreed, "And we're not all benevolent. There are rogues, and I think we're dealing with one here."

"Because the crime scene had genuine magic attached to it," Geoff guessed and glanced at Sherlock who had been quiet for ages. The thin genius was deeply asleep, curled around John possessively. John grinned when Lestrade gave him a curious look. Sherlock Holmes didn't sleep in company, certainly not when there was an interesting conversation going on.

"Let me guess, the poultice makes him sleep?" Geoff nodded at the damp patch seeping through Sherlock's shirt. John nodded and nuzzled against the head on his shoulder.

"It's not supposed to - it's a side effect that I can't quite work out," John sighed, "And thank you for not accusing me of using a spell on him."

"That strikes me as... unethical behaviour for a doctor, and whatever else you can do, Dr Watson, I've always known how seriously you take your job," Geoff said it plainly, "Now, since he's asleep, I'll leave these samples on the kitchen bench and take my leave. Let me know what he finds if you would."

"Will do," John's voice was warm with gratitude and Geoff nodded to him, neither man needing to hear a promise about keeping this side of things on the quiet.

As he shut the front door behind him, Geoff mused that should Mrs Hudson suddenly be revealed as a master criminal he would chalk it down to no more than the address she lived at. There had always been something about 221B Baker Street that was a little... unusual. Now he had a clearer idea of what it was.

***

AN - to be continued? Let me know!

Disclaimer - characters and setting as depicted in the BBC series not mine. No money being made.


	2. Incoming

**Writing on the Wall 2 (Sherlock BBC fanfic)**

November 29th, 19:22

Current Mood: exanimate

Current Music: classic FM

Lestrade didn't hear from Sherlock until ten o'clock the next morning. To be more accurate, he heard from John first, via a one word text that said everything about the state of the consulting detective headed his way.

_Incoming - JW_

Geoff winced and stuffed the phone back in his pocket, returning his attention to Sally, who was trying to justify her name calling of yesterday once more. He spotted the stir of Sherlock's arrival and cut her long winded, self justified rant short with a look.

"You've had your say, now I'll have mine. It's unprofessional and, in Dr Watson's case, uncalled for. I will not have the Press get hold of you calling a couple of consultant's names over an official frequency, over the internet or via texts. We just don't need the aggravation, what with this latest case and everyone all over us to get results. Next time I have to tell you it will be on record," he murmured and gestured for her to go as Sherlock swept into earshot. John was not with him this morning, which meant that Geoff would have to deal with the highly enthused genius by himself. He wondered if this was punishment for calling John a witch last night, then stopped. John was better than that - if he was annoyed at you he was more direct about it, not petty.

"Analysis of the samples shows that the traces at the scene all come _from_ the scene - no imported herbs, powders or other contaminants. According to my sources, that would be quite unusual under normal circumstances. I have more information on that back at the flat. If you want it, you'll have to come around - to inconvenient to carry all the way here," Sherlock announced, "Did you identify her?"

"She was a secondary student from Woodford County High school, name of Emily Weaver. It's a very high level independent school - so lots of pressure to do well. Her parents reported her missing twenty-four hours before we located her. CCTV footage shows her getting onto the central line at South Woodford, but there's none of her getting off, and the camera in the carriage she used had a glitch and didn't record most of her journey," Lestrade reported, "Maybe your sources might have an idea about the glitch?"

They both knew to what - or rather who - he was referring and Sherlock nodded, giving Geoff a piercing look.

"You're not... upset about developments?" coming from Sherlock the question was extraordinary. Geoff didn't bother to hide his shock that the self professed sociopath was attempting in his own way to defend a friend, knowing that Sherlock would notice it in the split second before he marshalled his wits anyway. Sherlock merely rolled his eyes and folded his arms impatiently.

"He's still the good man I knew three days ago," Geoff was not one for over analysing a situation. John had shown that he was still the same bloke with his care of Sherlock's arm - with his defence of Sherlock from that woman yesterday as well, come to think of it. Now, Geoff just knew a bit more about him than before.

"Good," Sherlock nodded uncomfortably and then changed the subject, "You knew I was coming."

"You're not exactly one to walk quietly into the office, Sherlock," Lestrade retorted, wondering what had prompted that line of thought - keeping up with Sherlock was enough to make a man dizzy.

"No, you _knew_ I was coming. You sent Sergeant Sally away before I could hear what you were saying - not that it wasn't obvious you were telling her off for abusing my name over the official band - which meant you knew before I entered the office that I was on my way... John!"

Lestrade jumped at the last exclamation and watched in bemusement as Sherlock whipped his phone and hit speed dial - number one, Geoff noted - putting the ringing phone on speaker.

"Hello?" the voice was groggy and a little disoriented. A woman could be heard fussing in the background.

"You're supposed to be asleep, not texting Lestrade," Sherlock accused, "And what is Mrs Hudson doing there?"

"I was asleep until you rang, Sherlock," John sounded a lot more awake and rather grumpy about it, "And I don't know what Mrs Hudson's up here for. You ask her - I'm going back to sleep."

There was a fumbling sound and Geoff did his best not to laugh at the expression on Sherlock's face. A more married conversation he hadn't heard since he'd last woken his wife by phone. He wasn't sure if they were a couple yet or not, but all the signs were there.

"Oh dear," Mrs Hudson tutted, "He is grumpy when he wakes up, isn't he dear?"

"Cover him with a blanket, please," Sherlock replied, ignoring the implication that this was common knowledge to him, "He'll never sleep properly if he's cold, and he was sitting up last night with me."

"Alright, dear," Mrs Hudson said, "I came up to see if you needed any milk."

"We usually do," Sherlock replied, "Thanks, Mrs Hudson."

He hung up in the teeth of another question. Sally knocked on the door and came in without waiting for a reply, giving Sherlock a nasty look as she did. Geoff sighed and wondered if it was worth speaking to her about her expressions as well.

"There's been another one," she announced, "At the Docklands."

"That's wrong," Sherlock murmured, continuing on before she could take offence and start ranting at him, "There's no reason for them to try again... not with the results of last night..."

Geoff wondered how much John had told Sherlock about last night's ritual. It wasn't something he could ask in front of Donovan either, but he was rapidly developing a need to know.

"Give me the address and meet me there. In the meantime, round up Anderson and his team, then take charge of the sight," Geoff ordered, watching as she nodded and headed back out, trailing an air of smugness behind her. Sally liked it when she was put in charge - even better when it was in front of Sherlock, "As for us, we're going to Baker Street to get John. I need more information, and I don't want it second hand."

Sherlock looked as if he would like to object but he nodded instead, making a sarcastic 'after you' gesture and following Geoff to the car park.

***

Sherlock had insisted on waking John himself, but Geoff had managed to place himself in the kitchen where he had a good line of sight. The consulting detective perched on the coffee table opposite the couch that contained the dozing doctor and simply stared at the other man until he woke - a process that took all of thirteen seconds.

"There's been another one," Sherlock said softly as John's eyes opened. The man on the couch growled, a low dangerous noise that had the hair on Geoff's neck standing up. Sherlock experienced a different reaction, leaning forward to touch his forehead with John's and latching a free hand in the blanket that covered him.

"This makes no sense," John muttered after a moment, "Let me up. How are we getting there?"

"Lestrade is in the kitchen, he has a car downstairs," Sherlock moved back, peeling off the blanket and tossing it over an armchair, "He wants more information."

"I would too, in his position," John agreed and staggered up off the couch, working his once wounded shoulder with a crack and grunt of pain before heading for his coat, "Geoff, you ready?"

"Yes. Sorry about waking you," Geoff stepped out into view at once, not wanting to give the impression that he was spying or something. They were silent until they were in the car and negotiating traffic in Central London at lunchtime. The pace they were going, they'd have plenty of time to talk.

"You wanted more information?" John asked from the backseat. He'd ushered Sherlock into the front passenger seat before sliding himself into the back, choosing to sit in the middle so he could lean forward and talk to the two men in front comfortably.

"What was with that woman last night in your flat?" it hadn't been the first question he'd needed answered, in fact he hadn't even known he'd been thinking about that question, but it was out in the open now, for better or worse. Sherlock scowled darkly and rubbed his arm in what seemed to be an automatic gesture. John reached over and stopped the motion with gentle fingers, brushing over Sherlock's cheek fondly as well before retreating.

"She's a lot stronger than she looks," John agreed, "And someone has taught her to use pressure points to control the people she's restraining. Unfortunately, she is not averse to causing more pain than is needed to do this. One of these days, I'm going to set her straight."

Geoff made a mental note to be out of the country on that day, and to take the wife and kids with him. Sherlock settled into his seat though, some of the tension leaving his frame, a sure sign that John had reassured him over his inability to overcome her grip last night.

"Sherlock said that who ever killed our victim last night used whatever was to hand for that ritual - which I still know nothing about, by the way - and that was an unusual occurrence," Geoff stated, getting his mind back on the case, "Can you explain that to me?"

"Last nights scene was a power raising ceremony, complete with ritual human sacrifice. It's the darkest of magic's - forbidden to all, practiced by a foolish few. That sort of ritual requires certain elements to be present; those elements were all available at last night's site in some form or other. You remember how the atmosphere at the scene was oppressive? That's a side effect of the attempted spells. The practitioner wasn't entirely successful, but they should still have taken the knife they used in the sacrifice at the very least. It was steeped in power, just not as much as they'd hoped for."

"How much did they hope for?" Sherlock asked, "Is there an empiric measurement we can apply? What standard unit is used?"

"Nothing that you'd understand, Sherlock," the words are said so gently that Sherlock accepts them without a protest, though had it been anyone else speaking they'd have been witness to a tantrum of spectacular proportions, "You just don't have the knowledge to place it in context."

"I will one day," Sherlock sighed, "You'll help me understand."

Such simple faith. Geoff had to clear his throat as the full ramifications of that statement hit him. These two men in the car with him were embarked on a journey together that they expected to last for a lifetime. Geoff made a mental note to buy them a wedding present that he could present the next time he wanted to annoy Sherlock and met John's eyes in the mirror. The doctor grinned and looked out the side window for a moment. Clearly he'd been taking lessons in mind reading from Sherlock.

"Can you tell me how you cleared the atmosphere?" Geoff changed the subject, "I thought for a moment you'd gone mad."

"The ritual needs to be contained, for lack of a better word, in a web of sorts. It presents to me like a circuit diagram - I followed the power lines until I found one I could cut without causing a short circuit or a dangerous surge. Those aren't the official terms of course..."

"No, but I understand what you mean," Geoff grinned, not at all offended that John was speaking to his level of experience instead of over it as Sherlock did so often. They spotted the first of the blue lights and tape and Geoff pulled over carefully.

"They shouldn't have done a second ritual so soon, Geoff. Something is wrong here. Either we have two rival groups - which doesn't bear thinking about - or someone is dabbling in things that are well out of their ken. This is not going to end well," John leaned forward and spoke urgently.

"Ok," Geoff blew out a sigh, "And I take it that you'll have to deal with these people personally?"

"Flak jackets and stab vests don't deter magic," there was a wealth of experience in John's voice and Geoff bit down on the need to groan and bang his head on the wheel. Dealing with more than one case at a time was a necessary evil when it came to working for the Yard. He didn't need to deal with it in his consultants as well!

To be continued


	3. Making It Personal

**Writing on the Wall 3 (Sherlock BBC fanfic)**

**WARNING – SLASH SCENE AT THE END OF CHAPTER! DON'T LIKE, DON'T READ!**

November 30th, 17:47

Current Mood: cold

Current Music: Prodigy

The crime scene is on the top floor of a tall building that has only just been enclosed with glass. They clank their way up in the lift, passing floors that are finished and already in use, then onwards to the partially finished. The smell of paint, plaster and glue are heavy in the air, but as they approach the top floor, that is replaced with the metallic tang of blood.

The door opens with a ridiculously polite chime and the three men emerge into a scene of milling chaos. Although Geoff can see the dead woman in the centre of the floor, it appears that no one else can. Anderson is off to the side, taking fibre samples from the floor and the photographer is apparently taking pictures of the - admittedly spectacular - view. There is a wind blowing from somewhere - the windows are designed to never open this high up, so the perpetrator must have smashed one, but Lestrade can't pinpoint the location.

There are two constables standing nearby, bickering sharply with each other, and Sally Donovan is on the other side of the floor space, snapping at another blue suited forensic scientist, who is gathering what appears to be plaster dust. John makes a thoughtful sound under his breath and walks into Geoff, bouncing off him and getting entangled in his coat. For a moment, the DI is irrationally angry as John stoops to retrieve the set of keys that have fallen from the floor, but then John hands them back and Geoff calms once more. Sherlock is standing by the door to the lift, raking the scene over with his eyes but not making any attempt to walk out on it.

"Just a moment, Geoff," John's voice is unusually gentle, as if Geoff had been injured and John was treating him, "Call Anderson over would you, he's in the way."

"Anderson, what have you got?" Geoff asked in a loud voice and Anderson straightened, caught sight of Sherlock where he stood and stormed over, rage contorting his face.

"What's **_he_** doing here? Why is it that every time I attend a crime scene I have to deal with an amateur, contaminating my evidence and calling me names to boot?"

The rant was one Geoff had heard before, but the tone was... vitriolic. If a man could kill using his voice alone, Sherlock would have been dead many times over. In the corner of his eye, Lestrade noticed that all other activity at the crime scene had stopped as the officials present drifted in their direction, a faintly menacing look on their faces.

'_My god - it's the magic. The magic is making them act this way. They could kill him and not be aware of it,'_ the thought ran through Geoff's mind like a liquid brand, turning his blood cold. There was a distinct air of danger about - the normally rational men and women in front of him appearing to want to rend Sherlock limb from limb. While Geoff could sympathise with that occasional urge, it wasn't something he'd ever wanted to see actually happen. He was fairly certain that John would have something to say about that too.

Sherlock spoke up from where he stood; his voice just the right shade of supercilious to make Anderson see red. Normally, Geoff would be happy for them to shout it out, but with the support that Anderson was apparently gathering, it was possible that they'd clear the air by tossing the consulting detective out the window. John moved into view behind the crowd, once more moving slowly and carefully, avoiding obstacles that no one else could see - actually twisting and ducking at one point to do so. Just as things took a turn for the downright ugly, John reached out both hands, grasped thin air and snapped it.

As if a plug had been pulled, the atmosphere drained away and the rest of the team went back to their jobs, apparently discovering that there was a dead body in their midst and taking steps to catalogue and photograph it. Sherlock and Anderson continued their argument, though the level of menace on Anderson's part had dropped to normal. Sherlock's remained where it was - which was normal for him, Geoff realised after a moment.

"That's enough, Anderson! You've got a job to do," Geoff barked when there was a brief lull. Anderson scoffed and stalked off to supervise his team while Sherlock muttered something that Geoff didn't catch and moved further into the scene. John came to stand beside Geoff, giving him a brief glance over and then stuffing his hands into his pockets - his usual crime scene pose.

"that was a bit dangerous, wasn't it? they could have hurt him," Geoff muttered and John shook his head.

"I wouldn't have let them," he replied softly, a faint hint of reproach in his tone, "And Sherlock likes a good argument now and then."

Geoff nodded and turned to check once more that his team had returned to their normal, professional selves. His gave came to a halt on Sherlock, who was standing ramrod straight over the bloodied corpse.

"Sherlock?" John sounded worried, stepping forward and taking his hands from his pockets, "What is it?"

"Not what, who. They've killed Dotty," the forlorn tone in Sherlock's voice was enough to freeze the entire scene. For the second time that afternoon, everyone froze and turned to look at the consulting detective. Geoff couldn't blame them - there was actual emotion in his tone, albeit very frosty and stiff. John swore and hurried to Sherlock's side, putting a hand on his back and peering down at the corpse himself.

"Oh no," John's voice was sad, "Poor Dotty."

"Who is Dotty?" Donovan spoke up, though she was at least using an appropriate tone - possibly because she was looking at John.

"She was in Sherlock's network of homeless people - they ferried information to him about various crimes and so on. She had a lovely singing voice," John sighed, "I don't know if Dotty was her real name..."

"She never said herself, but I believe it was a nickname given her by several others. She wasn't entirely... stable," Sherlock said coldly, "She once told me that she'd rather sleep beneath a bridge than in a ward. If you check her fingerprints against the files you may find she'd been sectioned before. That should lead to a true name."

"If no one claims her, we will," John added, and some of the tension in Sherlock's body drained away, "It's only right after all."

"Ok," Geoff nodded, "Do you want to excuse yourselves from the scene?"

"No!" Sherlock barked and turned back to his usual intensive examination. John returned to where he'd been standing by the elevator, sadness in his eyes. Geoff gave him a concerned look, but turned back to his people. The only way to stop this was to catch the bastards behind it, and for that they needed information.

***

"I'm sorry about Dotty," John murmured into the side of Sherlock's neck, "She was one of your first informants, wasn't she?"

"Yes," Sherlock scowled out at the passing streets of London. John squirmed a little closer on the seat, ignoring the glances the cabbie was throwing them in the mirror. Sherlock may not have shown it, but he needed the comfort, just as John needed to give it to him, "She deserved a better end."

"We will catch them, Sherlock, and they'll pay," John promised softly, twining their fingers together and then sitting still, allowing his consulting genius to catalogue and compare the two scenes they'd visited over the last two days in his head. He knew better than to distract Sherlock with his presence or touch - it was something they'd learned in the first few months of their friendship. When they had taken the next step into intimacy, Sherlock had learned to give John the touches he needed, while John had learned how to be present and absent at the same time. It was one of the few things Sherlock praised him for in public - in private they had a whole different list of skills each man valued.

They were silent as the taxi pulled up to their front door and John paid the cabbie while Sherlock unlocked the front door. He waited, uncharacteristically, for John to join him before heading upstairs. John clenched his jaw but made no reference to Mycroft and his unnerving visit. He and the elder Sherlock brother had a score to settle - no one broke into their flat and hurt Sherlock, no matter how 'pure' their motives.

Sherlock relaxed when the flat was empty and John moved automatically to make tea, before turning his attention to some of the household chores that needed completion. Geoff would be around later to discuss the more supernatural side of the crime scene they'd just witnessed and John anticipated that between the three of them they'd come up with some kind of theory that would need further action. Sherlock may disparage Geoff's intelligence and abilities, but he could not deny that the DI sparked avenues of investigation that he might not have originally considered, as did John.

Tidying complete, John settled into his armchair with one of the 'trashy novels' that Sherlock had mocked only yesterday. John's status as a mage had come as a double surprise to Sherlock - firstly because he hadn't expected to walk into the front room and find John using the skull to bind and destroy a demon that had tracked him down - mostly because he hadn't thought that someone who experienced magic on such a visceral level would be interested in reading 'misinformed and ill-conceived plots' about it.

John had said he liked to pick out the mistakes. Sherlock hadn't understood, but he accepted the answer.

He was just getting into the next chapter when the book was brushed aside and Sherlock took its place. The thin genius was straddling John's lap, a worryingly light weight on his thighs. Long arms draped themselves over his shoulders and a curly head pressed against his. Sherlock was looking at him intently - John knew that this was a result of finding Dottie's body earlier today. He dropped the book beside his chair and leaned up, taking a long slow kiss, warming their lips with gentle friction. Sherlock made an approving noise and John smiled, increasing the intensity of the touch and sliding his fingers up under the thin shirt his lover wore. He traced random patterns over warm skin, enjoying the way Sherlock arched into the touch like a contented cat being stroked.

Sherlock drew one hand to cup John's neck, the warm pressure against his pulse reassuring, while the other located and scratched across John's nipples. John sighed in pleasure and tucked the fingers of one hand under Sherlock's waistband at the back, skimming the elastic of his pants and then delving inside. Sherlock moaned - this was a hot spot for him, and John knew it - pressing back into the touch greedily. A glance down between kisses showed the very physical effect John's touches were having, but he was quickly distracted by Sherlock's pinch at his nipple - a sharp 'pay attention' move.

John quirked an eyebrow in silent challenge and withdrew his hands, skimming over the front of Sherlock's trousers and undoing them with a quick movement that was so familiar as to be almost automatic. He fished inside for his prize, gripping firmly and tugging then releasing in a hypnotic pattern that soon had his lover panting and squirming, inarticulate noises coming from his usually eloquent lips. John grinned and gripped Sherlock's hips, pulling him up to kneel in the chair as John slid down, replacing his hand with his mouth. He touched his own cock as an afterthought, focussing solely on drawing Sherlock higher and higher before tipping him over the edge. The thin genius keened and shook, collapsing onto John's thighs and pressing his face into John's good shoulder, mumbling his lovers name over and over. After a moment he straightened and pressed a gentle kiss to John's mouth, running a hand down the shorter man's cheek in gentle thanks.

Sherlock slithered back out of John's lap and onto the floor, fumbling at his lover's clothes for a moment before mastering the button and zip. John's last thought before he surrendered to his own pleasure was to hope that Geoff was a little late.

To be continued...


	4. A Moment to Refuel

**Writing on the Wall 4 (Sherlock BBC fanfic)**

December 1st, 8:06

Current Mood: sleepy

Current Music: classic FM

"Just in time," the comment startled Geoff as John opened the front door, until he realised there was a delivery boy behind him. He waited politely while John made the transaction, and then followed the other man up the stairs.

"We've got a number twenty-two here for you and singapore noodles," John said over his shoulder as he led the way up.

"How did you..." Geoff stuttered and John threw him an amused look. It was at moments like this that Geoff found his knew knowledge about the man hard to assimilate. It was such an ordinary look - the same 'you know what Sherlock's like' look that they had exchanged hundreds of times before.

"Sherlock," the doctor shrugged and Geoff nodded, somewhat resigned. He didn't know why he bothered to ask questions like that, really. Who else would be able to work out his food preferences without asking?

"Sherlock! Food's here!" John called as he laid the meal out on the coffee table.

"Boring!" was the response to that, from wherever Sherlock was. John merely rolled his eyes and waved Geoff to a seat on the couch, joining him and handing over cutlery.

"DI Lestrade's here too!"

"Less boring," was the unflattering response, but Sherlock emerged from wherever he'd been and came to sit on his armchair with the food cartons John pushed his way. Geoff could see the consulting genius wasn't ready to discuss his shocking discovery at the crime scene and so did him the favour of not bringing it up straight away. Instead he focussed his attention between his food and John.

"Look, John, I know it might seem rude to question your host over dinner, but..."

"You've got a need to know," John agreed, "It's ok Geoff, I've been expecting this. What do you want to know - I'll answer what I can."

"Some things are classified... apparently," Sherlock did not sound impressed that there were limits placed on the knowledge he could access. Geoff was glad he hadn't been there for that initial argument. The younger man was picking at his food in a desultory fashion; had it been anyone else, Geoff would have said he was upset.

"Earlier, you said that there were different... ranks of magic?" he knew John Watson well enough that if he got the ball rolling, John would run with it and fill in whatever gaps he could. John grinned at him and nodded.

"There are orders of magic - and orders of practitioners as well. It's... like the police force. You all have the same basic tenets that you follow, but you also have an area of speciality, depending on your role and aptitudes. Magic is all about balance, but there are different ways to achieve that," John said and Geoff nodded, the idea sparking a thought.

"And you're affected by geography, climate and demography as well, right? Like a cop in Brazil, Australia and America all have the same jobs as a cop in England, but the methodology is different because the laws and population are different," he muttered, "So you have to adapt to where you are and what your expected to do."

"Yes," John nodded, a pleased smile on his face, "And like any police system, you have different ranks - the PC on the beat has a role to play, just as the DI's and Superintendents do. Each role is important, but each has its own unique set of limitations to it."

"And each role has its power limits as well," Geoff continued the thread of discussion, accepting the prawn toast from Sherlock who was watching them with interest now. He'd probably never seen John explain magic to someone else - it was different to watch than to be part of the conversation.

"Yes, a witch or wizard would be the constables, sergeants and DI's of the magical order depending on their personal strength and experience, and a mage or magi would be the superintendents," John agreed, "A magi being the female equivalent to mage."

"Right," Geoff thought for a moment, wondering how to bring his next question up. Sherlock snorted and put his container of food down - Geoff noted it was half empty which meant that the detective was actually eating for a change.

"He's wondering how to ask you about the rank of the people behind these crimes," Sherlock informed John, leaning over to steal some of John's dim sum. John allowed it with a patient look and spent a few moments thinking.

"Once again, like the police, we have good and bad practitioners. Some are not good because they are too rigid or lax in their practices; some are not good because they're out of step with the requirements of their area. The thing is, magic is not black and white, good and bad. There are many shades of grey involved, and that is where the damage is done. Sometimes we need to commit a 'wrong' act to get the right result."

"Like a cop who ignores a homeless person stealing an apple from a market stall," Geoff nodded, having done that very thing himself. John beamed at him and nodded once more.

"Exactly," he agreed, "Unfortunately there are those that commit wrong acts for results that are not intended to be good either - but as with any system, you can't have good without bad. If you gave a person 100 things that were classed as good, that person would rank some as 'more good' than others. It's human nature to make these differentials."

"You said before we got to the crime scene that the rituals were for power-raising... does that mean someone is trying to increase their strength?" Geoff put his empty food container aside, aware that he was risking seeming the fool with this question, but needing to get down to hard facts. Motive would help him understand the crime.

"No," John sighed, "They're trying to gather a significant amount of power in order to attain a one-off goal - something that will have long term effects for them but won't increase their personal ability... think of it like upgrading your phone. You can do more with the newer model, but that doesn't change your ability to communicate. Just because you have the latest iPhone, doesn't mean you can suddenly speak three new languages."

"You said that they had left behind a significant artefact, the knife," Geoff nodded to show that he understood the analogy. He was relieved that this conversation was happening with John Watson, who actually liked to communicate with other people and wouldn't hide details or misdirect Lestrade just for the fun of it. At least Geoff wouldn't have to fake a drugs bust to get answers this time around.

"The knife is a key artefact in these rituals - it would have absorbed a significant amount of power. The more often an artefact like that participates in a ritual, the more powerful it becomes," John frowned, obviously casting about for a way to explain, but Geoff knew what he meant, like a bolt of lightning coming from no-where.

"The predictive text on my phone learns my speech patterns over time. If I started every new text on a new phone, I'd have to keep re-teaching it what I meant," he offered and John beamed at him, pleased with the astute simile.

"Exactly," he shot Sherlock a look to stop the muttering that was going on from the genius' corner, "The knife shouldn't have been left behind at all, but it was. The second scene had a different kind of knife, right? It was a thin, one sided blade."

"Yes, we found it hanging in front of the broken window," Geoff felt the hairs rising on the back of his neck, "How did you know that? We hadn't found it when you left."

"I have a theory," John grimaced, "About the pattern to these killings. Unfortunately I don't have enough data to tell you who, or even why or when, but I may be able to give you some idea of the basic goal behind all of this. The crime scene would have been a week old - the builders were supposed to work up there last week but found other stuff to do. This is because the spell network on the scene would have turned them away. It was breaking down, which is why they noticed it. You saw how everyone was affected up there, right? It's a side effect of the magic's in the ritual decomposing, like an atmospheric contaminant."

"Rotting magic," Sherlock sounded intrigued by the idea and John shot him a warning look, "Fine, I remember what you said. No experiments on this."

"Damn right," John muttered, but Geoff shot them a startled look.

"You mean that Sherlock can also use magic?" he asked, a feeling of horror starting to dawn over him. Sherlock Holmes was difficult enough without dealing with supernatural tendencies as well!

"Only to the same degree you are," John reassured him at once, "You are both capable of wielding passive magic's, like the poultices that I use when you're hurt, Sherlock. True magic - changing or working with the fabric of the world - is beyond you both. You need an innate talent for that."

"Like you," Sherlock murmured, shooting John a proud, possessive look. He got an affectionate smile in return and Geoff glanced away to offer them a moment of privacy.

"So why leave the knife behind?" it felt like he was harping on the point, but Geoff needed an answer.

"Sorry, Geoff," John apologised, "The answer to that is I'm not sure. The knife at the first scene was double edged, wide and with a groove down the centre, right? And this one was thin and single edged? That argues a different power ritual each time. The thing is, these rituals are not specific enough. There doesn't appear to be a central theme. Most of the time, there is a commonality like moon phase, artefact and location involved. The rituals haven't been held at specific times, have used different artefacts and locations and even different incantations. At the moment, I am assuming that there is a common artefact present - one that is taken from ritual to ritual. I just don't know what it is, or why. I need time to research and to contact a few people."

"We don't know who this is, though, you could actually be contacting the murderers themselves," Sherlock protested, "It's too dangerous!"

"Sherlock," there was a distinct warning in John's tone, "We need more data. That's all there is to it."

"Then I'll get you the data - Lestrade will give me the access I need. I don't want him near these people, Lestrade, not after last time!"

Geoff wondered what had happened last time to get Sherlock so worked up about John contacting people in his own community, but never had a chance to ask. John was on his feet, anger crossing his face as he headed for the door.

"Fine, you go make your deductions, Sherlock. I'll just sit here and knit, shall I?" John snorted, "Lestrade, if you examine the knives, don't let them cut you. The blades have tasted blood and they'll want more. Take every precaution, ok?"

"Ok," Geoff watched John grab his coat and leave the room without looking back, the front door slamming behind him. Knowing better than to ask what that had been about, he got up as well and turned to Sherlock who looked rather stricken for a moment before blanking his face.

"Come on, the lab will be quiet now and we can have a nose around in peace. I want to be able to ask questions without anyone overhearing me - I'd be sectioned for sure," he said to the detective who nodded with a faint smirk. The expected comment didn't follow though, which showed how upset Sherlock really was.

Together they headed out into Baker Street to look for a cab.

***

John wasn't too surprised when the 'anonymous' black car glided up beside him as he traversed the back lane. Still, he wasn't in the mood and when the driver hopped out to open the door, he barked,

"Piss off!" in his best Captain Watson tone and kept walking.

"Dr Watson, I've been told to use any and all means necessary," the driver said, a faint note of apology in his tone. This explained why Mycroft had waited until John was in such a narrow area to attempt this abduction. Less room for fisticuffs and less chance of a member of the public mistakenly trying to help. Unfortunately for him, it also meant that John was not constrained in his response to the driver's threat.

The man was only doing his job, so John was particularly careful not to hurt him, but by the time he was done the driver was immobilised in the boot of his own car, several of his limbs numb from the blows John had dealt to key nerve points. The army had taught him to fight, and fight well; that was all the skill he needed to act against someone who had either overestimated their own ability or not been briefed properly on John's skill sets.

"You tell your employer that if he wants a conversation with me he can call me on my phone. That would be the one that I mentioned to him the very first time we met. You can also tell him that the very next time he decides to drop in on my place of residence he'd better have arranged the visit in advance. The numbness will wear off in an hour or so and the keys are by your hand, so you can unlock the boot," John informed his opponent, who lost a little of the terror in the back of his eyes that he was about to be killed out of hand.

John shut the boot gently and continued on his way, some of his anger cooled now that he'd had a chance to take his frustrations out in a bout of fisticuffs.

Still, Mycroft was rapidly moving up his list of 'things to deal with'.

To be continued...


	5. Ever Onward

Writing on the Wall 5 (Sherlock BBC fanfic)

**grannysknitting**

December 1st, 15:55

Current Mood:

groggy

Current Music:

Nightbook

The morgue is quiet and deserted at this time of night, which is perfect if you're poking around a dead body with a civilian. Once in the morgue Sherlock's air of disquiet disappears as he is confronted with the chance to collect the data that they need so badly.

"John would tell you if he knew," the comment, coming as Sherlock peered at the bottom of Emily Weavers feet, was startling in the quiet. Geoff straightened from where he was examining marks on her wrists and shot Sherlock a look that the genius probably saw despite being engrossed in his examination.

"John would tell me what, Sherlock? The point of the rituals? Where the next one will be held? How to stop them and who to arrest? All obvious points that I need to know," he said sharply, "However there is one thing that I am very well aware of in all this... John Watson is not you.** Of course he'd tell me if he knew.**"

Sherlock straightened under the scolding and when Geoff was finished he had the grace to at least nod in acknowledgement of the DI's point. He pointed to the wrist next to Geoff with one long finger, moving up the table to peer at it closely.

"I take it you noticed that the bruising pattern doesn't match the rope we recovered with her body," Sherlock said quietly, as close to a compliment that he'd ever get. Geoff nodded, more in response to the words than because he had noticed, bending once more to look at what Sherlock was pointing out.

"The rope that restrained her was flat and braided. The rope we recovered was rough hemp, round with two strands. It would have cut into her wrists and ankles more than whatever it was tied over," Sherlock straightened and moved to the head of the table. Geoff picked up the coroners report on the side and flipped through it.

"The report said there was no sign of sexual abuse - I suppose that's something at least. They subdued her, tied her down and then cut the designs on her body," Geoff murmured trying not to imagine it. She'd have been terrified, poor kid, assuming she was aware of what was going on. After the reaction at the Docklands crime scene, Geoff was hoping that the 'spell web', as John had called it, had kept her out of it.

"She died when something was shoved into her mouth and down her throat, suffocating her," Sherlock added, "Whatever it was, they retrieved it before leaving the body."

"Something to ask your source about," Geoff muttered, "Providing of course, the findings are the same on Grace Willard."

Her prints had indeed been in the system - they were locating her next of kin now. Geoff was hoping that whoever it was would allow Sherlock and John to at least attend the funeral - after all they'd been friends of the woman, of a sort.

"Dotty," Sherlock corrected then looked up in interest, "Her name was Grace? She used to sing that slavery song... Amazing Grace: John liked it. He always gave her a twenty for that one. Dotty wouldn't take money for nothing, you see, and if it was especially cold or she looked too thin he would ask her to sing for him. In fact he'd do that with any of my decent ones - the ones we only see now and then have a more professional relationship..."

Geoff nodded, trying not to give away that he realised Sherlock was running on because it was Dotty they'd be examining next and he was uncomfortable with it. He let Sherlock move over to the table that Grace was lain on while he made a small fuss of covering Emily Weaver just right, keeping his back to the consulting detective. It was the closest he could come to giving the man some privacy.

"The same pattern with the rope," Sherlock's voice was flat and calm, so Geoff turned and moved to the thin mans side, looking where Sherlock pointed and identifying the odd bruise pattern, mentally matching it to the one on Emily Weaver. Sherlock caught the report up and skimmed through it rapidly, his face distant as he read about his informant's death. Or maybe she was a friend; it was hard to tell how Sherlock categorised his relationships. Until John came along, Geoff would have thought the man incapable of making friends with anyone - now he knew better.

"And the same cause of death," the file was tossed back onto the counter, "There's no sign of a struggle and the tox screen is clear - although that's fairly meaningless."

"They do a very thorough job here, Sherlock," Geoff remonstrated and the consultant straightened with an impatient gesture.

"They do an _adequate_ job here," he corrected, "The average tox screen wouldn't pick up the kind of drugs or compounds being used in this situation."

"Fair point," Geoff allowed, "So we've at least discovered two possible objects that are taken from site to site. How does that help us in the long run?"

"My source will know," Sherlock replied, "We've also learned that Emily Weavers was dead the day they took her. Her crime scene wasn't discovered for twenty-four hours. That changes the time line. Dotty... Grace... died five days ago, which puts the deaths at four days apart. We have two more days until the next death if they stick to this schedule."

"There doesn't seem to be any commonality between the victims - age, social status, geographic location, they're all different."

"Grace spoke with a Welsh accent," Sherlock turned and covered his informant up, drawing the sheet neatly and gently over her, his hand lingering on her head for a moment, "This Emily Weavers was bred locally?"

"Yes, she had the typical accent of her area too," Geoff followed as the man strode away, presumably heading for the forensics lab where the knives were being held. There was an absent minded 'hmm' thrown over Sherlock's shoulder as they reached the door. Geoff reached for his access card, but Sherlock was already swiping it through the door reader. He didn't seem to notice the glare he was receiving when he handed it back, either.

The knives were stored in clear plastic evidence cylinders, but Geoff made Sherlock put on a double layer of gloves before going near them, John's warning sounding in his ears. He wouldn't let Sherlock take them out of the cylinders either, which earned him an infuriated glare and a cold shoulder. They were so different in composition and style that Lestrade had a hard time seeing them linked to the crime scenes. Most killers found a preferred style of weapon and stuck with it - replacing like for like when the need arose.

The first knife was a wide bladed, double sided affair. There was a groove running down the centre and the blades formed a sort of v shape, emanating from that groove.

"We found it in the dirt, near the door," Geoff read through the report again, "In fact it was stabbed down into the ground. The second one was tied by the handle and swinging in the wind from the window that the perps had cut open."

"Cut open?" Sherlock asked sharply and Lestrade handed him the photographs. Five diamonds had been cut into the affected window, with the knife hanging so that it was positioned in the centre.

"A five pointed star, look. It's been inverted," Sherlock grabbed a nearby marker and joined the diamonds, drawing a star onto the photograph. The thin single bladed knife pointed at the bottom point of the star, the tip of the blade touching the top of the diamond, the top of the handle touching the bottom of another diamond. It was perfectly framed - the photographer had caught the bloodied blade in mid-swing.

"Yes, Anderson noticed that," Geoff nodded, "He's been doing some research, though he's not as good as your source."

"Naturally," Sherlock scoffed, "No one is as good as... my source."

Geoff swallowed a grin - Sherlock sounded just like a proud spouse there. It was all the funnier because he would be totally unaware of it.

"They didn't find anything at the site they could use with their rituals," he managed to keep his amusement from his voice, mostly because he didn't want to deal with Sherlock in a temper later on, "There were some markings drawn in charcoal - came from a generic brand you can buy in a garden centre - and that was all."

"Hmm," Sherlock mused, sitting back, "We really need to speak to John."

"Text him," Geoff suggested kindly, "Maybe he'll meet up with us."

And maybe he'd have calmed down after Sherlock's fit of over-protectiveness. Lestrade didn't know where that had stemmed from - other than past experience - and while he was a cop because he liked to be nosy - and proud of it - Geoff knew there was a time and a place for questions. In the middle of the case was not it.

Sherlock's phone chimed and he slid his fingers over the screen rapidly. Lestrade watched him scowl and then hit the screen with a pointed finger, holding the phone to his ear and walking away from Geoff. The DI took the time to return the knives to their place in the evidence locker and put the files away neatly too. He used the terminal on the side desk and logged on, checking his departmental emails and using the local printer to make copies of the autopsy and forensics reports for John to look over. Gathering everything up, he glanced over at Sherlock who was standing by the door, hands in his pockets, staring at the floor. Wondering when he'd become Sherlock Holmes' den mother, Geoff tucked the files into his jacket and went to join the genius.

"Not good?" he asked kindly.

"A bit not good," Sherlock sighed, "Mycroft attempted to... waylay him. He hasn't had any luck looking for the person he wants to meet either. He's meeting us back at Baker Street though."

"Let's go, then," Geoff nodded, wondering if he'd have to deal with another crime scene tonight, this one created by an irate John Watson. He took the thought back immediately though. John wouldn't have done anything that required legal intervention - especially as he'd probably been faced with a minion, not the senior Holmes himself. John was very good at not taking his temper out on the undeserving.

&£&£&£&£

Sherlock took his coat the moment he was through the door and ushered John to the couch, where Lestrade and a cup of tea were waiting. John sat obediently and made a mental note to reassure his lover that their argument was done with - Sherlock had a hard time noticing he'd been forgiven, usually because he rarely noticed he'd been offensive in the first place.

"We've discovered the commonalities at the two sites," Sherlock announced, sitting on the coffee table - evidently his chair was too far away, "They were both bound with a flat braided rope or cord and suffocated with something that was later removed from their throats and taken with the practitioners."

"Leather or fibre for the cordage?" John frowned. Beside him, Lestrade pulled some files from his coat and flicked to the correct page. Sherlock fidgeted and handed John the tea that had been made for him, John took it with a faint smile and sipped, relieved to discover that his flatmate hadn't mixed up the sugar and salt again.

"Fibre," Lestrade reported, and John nodded.

"It's probably 12 strand Dyneema, sailors use it," he muttered, "If they're not using a natural fibre that means the rope is destined to restrain something... something strong, powerful enough to use the natural fibre to its own advantage."

"Use it?" Sherlock frowned, "What do you mean?"

"Well, most people who are tied up can't use the rope at all. A trained escapologist could use the rope to help themselves get free in some shape or form and as a potential weapon afterwards. Magical creatures are different. They can use the natural things around them to channel their powers," John said quietly.

"Like a wand?" Geoff asked, incredulously. John grinned, clearly following his line of thought.

"Not like Harry Potter, Geoff," he teased lightly and the DI grinned even as he blushed. John reflected how lucky they were that it had been Lestrade that had noticed him at the crime scene and not someone else, "More like an antenna, if that makes sense."

"Sure: they amplify their... magic? intent?... and that helps them get loose. Makes perfect sense," Geoff nodded. John nodded and pointed a finger at the DI.

"Exactly. You're a natural at this," he approved the simile, "This is a vital clue - if they're charging this rope to hold something they intend to summon, then we can start to work out their final goal. Whatever they've used to suffocate their victims will probably be bound into a protection amulet as well – that limits the materials they can use and their potiential targets too. I'll need to get to the Reading Room at the British Museum tomorrow to do some research, but we already know they're going after the four elements and seeking to bind and control."

"Wait, the four elements?" Sherlock interrupted, "How do you... of course. The earth element at Emily Weavers crime scene and the air element at Grace Willard's. Obvious. So they will be looking at water and fire next - in which order though?"

John watched fondly as Sherlock leapt from the coffee table and went after the nearest laptop - which was his own for a change and not John's. Then the name he'd said registered and John glanced at Geoff for confirmation.

"I take it you identified Dotty, then?" he asked sadly, "Do her family know?"

"They will by now," Geoff confirmed, "I'm sorry, John."

"Poor Dotty... Grace. She had such a beautiful singing voice. It was like bells drifting over crisp snow," John sighed, "She could stop a whole street when she sung."

"I would have liked to hear that," Geoff murmured. His phone chimed and he pulled it out, glancing at the screen and relaxing. John surmised that it wasn't work trying to contact him.

"That's my missus, wants to know if I'm intending to come home at any point," Geoff sounded a little guilty and John grinned at him in sympathy. Those that married a cop must have hated the hours the good ones put into their job.

"We're not likely to see any action on the case tonight," John reassured him, "Go home."

"Yes Doctor," Geoff replied and hauled himself off the couch, "You'll call me tomorrow and brief me on what you've discovered?"

"Yes Detective Inspector," John promised. Mindful of the manners his mother had tried to instil in him, he got up too and walked the most patient man in Scotland Yard to the door.

"The Reading Room at the British Museum has books on magic?" Lestrade asked as they went down the stairs.

"If you know where to look," John grinned at the patient sigh he received in return, "See you tomorrow."

To be continued...

And 12 strand Dyneema does exist - it's a marine rope used for rigging - very tough, can take a lot of weight and it floats! Google it!


	6. The List

**Writing on the Wall 6 (Sherlock BBC fanfic)**

December 2nd, 17:55

Current Mood: frustrated

Current Music: Prodigy

For some reason, Geoff was always reminded of Jane Austen whenever he had to go to the British Museum's Reading Room. He had a sneaking suspicion that the serials and soaps his wife watched while he read next to her on the couch had infiltrated into his subconscious more than he'd like to admit. Either way, he half expected to see someone in a long frock swishing about on the upper gallery as he entered the space. Instead, he was faced with a bunch of tourists, a few true scholars, one or two researchers who had 'popped in' and the usual sort of 'mad hatter' that places like this attracted.

What he hadn't expected to come leaping his way once he'd spotted John Watson at a table in the far corner was a petite, fair skinned woman in the museum's uniform with shocking pink hair. She positively bounded towards him once she noticed where he was heading and barred his way.

"I'm sorry sir, the patrons of the reading room are not to be disturbed," she managed to whisper fairly stridently for someone of her size and appearance, though the whisper carried no further than the two of them. Lestrade sized his chances up and pulled his Yard ID out, holding it out for her to inspect.

"I won't disturb anyone – I'm here to meet with a consultant for the Yard," he murmured, "We'll keep it down."

"Dr Watson is not to be disturbed," the pink haired menace insisted, still in her strident whisper, "I'm sorry, he's engaged in some important research."

"Yes, the research is for my case," Geoff nodded patiently, "I'm well aware of what he's looking for; he told me he'd be here."

John looked up at that point, perhaps sensing the whispering was about him. He smiled when he spotted Geoff, and then looked behind him. When he saw no one else the smile dimmed a little before returning to its normal strength. He pulled his phone and sent a text – a second later Geoff's phone alerted, interrupting the adamant refusal of the pink haired woman to let him interrupt such an important man.

_Meet you in the café – ten minutes. JW_

Lestrade nodded and waved the phone in reply, turning without another word to the woman blocking his way and heading for the café. He got two teas and settled in a corner table that would let them both keep an eye on who was around them, possibly listening to their conversation. Neither man wanted to be caught in a public place discussing magic seriously, for obvious reasons.

"Thanks," John accepted the tea Geoff slid his way, settling into the empty seat and sipping at the brew for a moment before leaning back with a sigh, "I hate reading those books – the typeface is so small."

"Getting old, John," Geoff teased and John rolled his eyes in reply, taking the comment in good humour, "I haven't seen Sherlock today."

"He was going to hit the homeless network this morning, but I thought he might have checked in with you. He wanted to know if Grace's family were going to make funeral arrangements," John sighed, "We had another row this morning too – he's not best pleased that I'm contacting members of my own network again."

"Why is that? I mean, I guessed that he had a negative experience with them previously, but still it's not like him to be so… prejudiced against something," Geoff sensed an opportunity for a better look at John's 'world'. The mage opposite gave him a wry smile and shook his head.

"I had to deal with a small group of people who were using … ceremonial ingredients… to make street drugs. Sherlock walked in on a slightly nasty confrontation at the wrong time and in order to protect him I allowed the group to capture and restrain me. They underestimated my abilities though, and I managed to overpower them, then set them up so the police could incarcerate them and destroy their stock," the words were all carefully chosen to be accurate and yet unrevealing. Geoff appreciated the mastery that went into crafting those particular sentences and then frowned.

"Wait; there was an accidental drugs bust a few months ago. A car was pulled over for speeding and the drugs were out in full view. Sherlock turned up to a crime scene two days later and announced that you were ill and not to be disturbed… that was your work?" he saluted John with the dregs of his tea, "Well done, sir."

"Thanks," John grinned, bowing his head in acknowledgement, "The problem is that Sherlock found himself in the position of a liability, someone who was powerless to protect himself and therefore reliant on someone else – which went down like a ton of bricks as you can well imagine."

"Yes," Geoff sighed, "That young man hates not being in control… speaking of control, what was up with that librarian?"

"She's the keeper of the magical collection here," John replied, "An experienced witch, despite her age, though her personal powers aren't more than average. The community has noticed what's going on and I'm afraid that my arrival this morning to go through her sources made more of a statement than I'd have liked. It will be all over London soon; a mage is taking personal interest in the rituals."

"How will that happen? Is there some kind of secret communication network?" Geoff put the now empty cup on the table and leaned his arms on it comfortably. John snorted and shook his head.

"She'll use the same method of communication that I used to set up our meeting here – she'll text her friends, who'll text theirs – and some are on Twitter, so it won't take long for the information to pass around," John chuckled at the disappointment that Geoff was sure was on his face, "Shall we move? They get mad here if you're not eating or drinking."

"I've got a meeting with the Super in two hours," Lestrade stood and settled his coat back into place, "God knows what I'll tell him."

"Tell him the truth," John fell into step with Lestrade and they crossed to the exit, shivering a bit in the crisp outside air, "You've got two people who are holding magical rituals in an effort to call forth and control a demon."

"Just don't tell him that there is a chance it will work," Geoff mused, "I suppose that's one way forward. He'll want to know what we're doing to catch them, though and if we have any suspects."

"You're looking at a pair, in their late teens or very early twenties: either two girls or a boy and a girl. They're picking their victims by random happenstance, though they are definitely targeting women, the younger the better. They would be from comfortable home circumstances, under pressure to do well academically and they're likely to have offended before – misdemeanour stuff like shoplifting. The younger one is definitely female – she lures the victim into a position where the older can overcome her with a drug cocktail. If he wants details on the drug cocktail tell him that a second tox screen is being run to confirm it – you're assuming it must exist."

"I'd better order a second tox screen too," Geoff muttered and John smirked at him, a slightly wicked glint in his eye.

"The lab got your email this morning," his voice held a note of mischief; "I took the liberty of doing that for you."

"Thanks," Geoff decided he didn't want to know, "How do you know the bit about the practitioners?"

"Well for a start, the rope they're using. It's incredibly strong – and it will even float if you throw it into water. That suggests to me that they're after a water demon. Women have a better affinity with water than men – they carry their children in water, among other things. The next scene will involve fire in some way – they need to charge the rope with the three other elements before summoning the demon on the fourth. Adult practitioners wouldn't try for a water demon – we're more likely to try for fire or earth. It's the youngsters that have better affinity with air and water – two very changeable elements, much like teenagers," John explained, sounding so calm and rational that the expected sense of dislocation and confusion Geoff had been expecting never broke. _Don't tell me I'm getting used to this,_ he moaned to himself.

"Right, and I'm guessing the fact that they drugged their victims to make them easier to handle also speaks to their age and inexperience. An adult would have more methods at their disposal," he nodded gamely, "There were a few unmatched hairs and fibres at the scene, these may be our killers."

"We just need more time," John sighed, "It's so frustrating! The last mage in Central London was not the best I've ever come across – the community is in total disorder. If I had more time I could sort things out so this type of event wouldn't happen, but between my work at the surgery and with Sherlock, there is very little time for other things."

"The surgery pays the bills and Sherlock…" Geoff trailed off, unsure how to finish that sentence without giving offence.

"Needs a keeper," John snorted, his tone dryly affectionate, "Not that I mind, really."

"I'd noticed. Congratulations," Geoff grinned; that was as close as he would ever get to mentioning their 'married' status. From John's pleased grin, everything that needed to be said already had been.

Even though John had forewarned him that the next ritual would involve fire, Geoff had to admit that he hadn't been expecting something quite so literal. An anonymous tip had sent them all to an old Victorian fire station that had been converted into flats. They had been empty for some time as there was a conservation group battling with the developer over the legality of the changes that had been made to a building that had been in a heritage area. Geoff had ordered several fire trucks to the scene once he'd realised that they were dealing with the penultimate ritual, but so far no one had been able to get inside. Geoff wasn't sure why – the front doors looked like they'd give way under a solid swing from an axe, but it was as if no one could see the door clearly. The fire crews were uncertain about entering – they kept suiting up with breathing apparatus and the like and then removing the gear and checking it. The crime scene crew were also standing around, fussing with their equipment and snapping at each other. Anderson was giving someone a right dressing down off to one side – Geoff had no idea who that was, but the portly man appeared close to tears as his superior attempted to verbally flay him alive.

A black cab pulled up and Sherlock leapt from the interior like a jack-in-the-box, followed more sedately by John. The consulting detective hesitated just inside the yellow tape, allowing John to step past him and lead the way over to Geoff.

_Still haven't made up then,_ Geoff surmised; it couldn't have been easy for Sherlock to acknowledge that there were areas that John surpassed him in when it came to a case. Good thing John had such an even temper – they'd never have lasted as flatmates or friends if they'd both been of a volatile disposition.

"What have we got?" Sherlock asked from behind John, crowding closer to the smaller man. Alarm bells went off in Geoff's mind – John was shielding Sherlock from something, the posture and position of the two men obvious now he knew what to look for.

"I'm not sure – we can't get in," Geoff muttered, "John, I think that…"

He was cut off when a scream rang across the space between them and the building. It rose and fell as the woman – or girl – wailed her distress for all to hear. The people around him got a lot more agitated as the noise continued on with barely a pause.

"My god, someone's dying in there!" Donovan's voice sounded above the hubbub, "We need to get in there now!"

"It's a trap," Sherlock gasped and Geoff turned to look at him, "They're tying to…"

"Anderson!" John shouted suddenly, looking behind Geoff. The DI whirled and noted that Anderson had finished with his now pale and shaking colleague and was headed for the door at a run, "Anderson, wait!"

The lead forensic officer sneered at John and reached for the door handle. How he'd managed to locate it when everyone else on the scene was looking slightly to the left or right of it was beyond Geoff, but he didn't really have time to wonder. The screams hitched for a moment and then resumed, doubling in intensity. John took off, running flat out, still shouting, though the words were indistinct. Anderson reached out and grabbed the door handle with determination.

There was an explosion. Geoff was thrown into Sherlock, who was thrown to the ground. The DI squirmed around, covering the consultant with his own body, his arms over his head to protect them from flying debris. When there was nothing more than the roar of flames, Geoff raised his head and twisted free of the now swearing Sherlock, turning to look at the converted fire station.

It was certainly on fire now, and the crews had leapt into action, though their aim was slightly off. John was on the ground in front of the building, Anderson lying beside him. The screams continued to sound, though they were slightly muffled by the fire itself and the sounds of the fire crews.

"John!" Sherlock gasped and Geoff latched a hand in the coat that fluttered past, slowing the other man down with his body weight, though he couldn't stop him entirely.

"Sherlock, wait, it's not safe!" Geoff protested, even as John stirred and sat up, rolling to his knees and leaning over Anderson. He raised his head and bellowed at the ambulance crew standing to one side – the pair jumped as if startled and then seemed to remember their job was to attend the injured and pelted over with a stretcher and the usual paraphernalia. John disappeared from sight and Sherlock stuttered to a full stop, his head swivelling wildly as he sought out his lover.

Geoff took the opportunity to renew his grip on the coat, loathe to grab the other man by the arm after that nasty scene in the flat the other day.

"Can you see him?" Sherlock asked urgently, "He's probably gone inside to…"

The screams cut off as if a switch had been thrown, which Geoff was glad for, even if it meant they'd just lost another victim. The fire crews' aim got a lot better suddenly and the support crews at the site suddenly regained their focus. The ambulance crew moved with greater surety over Anderson, who appeared to be unconscious as they loaded him into the ambulance and pulled out, sirens wailing their urgency.

There was a drift of smoke and ash, and then John reappeared to the side, moving quickly to rejoin Sherlock and Geoff.

"You cut the web, didn't you?" Geoff muttered and John nodded, shooting a curious look at the grip the DI still had on Sherlock's coat. Sherlock had yet to truly notice as he was still fixated on John.

"He was running for the fire: I didn't want to grab his arm," Geoff's slight embarrassment at admitting that he'd noticed Sherlock's distress the other night was washed away in the approving and grateful look that John shot him. He let go of his handful of coat and jerked his head at his car.

It was parked in a fairly secluded spot, blocked from most people's view by two fire engines. He had a question burning on the tip of his tongue about what had just happened, but Sherlock beat him to it.

"They had another web up that was supposed to distort our perceptions and emotions, didn't they? They wanted as many people as possible to run into the fire once it started. Why weren't Lestrade and I affected the way the others were?"

"Lestrade is protected because I slipped a small talisman onto his house keys at the last scene," John sent a grin over at the astonished DI; "I'm not normally so clumsy that I can't avoid you when you stop walking. As for you, Sherlock, you're protected because you're mine."

John reached up and drew the backs of his fingers over Sherlock's cheek, his own expression as serious as his voice had been for that last statement. Sherlock made a small sound and folded himself to rest against John; his forehead resting on the smaller mans shoulder, his hands gripping narrow hips.

"The talisman isn't foolproof, Geoff," John turned his head to look at the DI, his expression calm, "It will increase your own natural resistance – at the very least it will alert you that something is interfering with your perceptions. It won't make you immune, nor will it make you bullet proof."

"I understand," Geoff nodded, "Thank you, Dr Watson."

"Any time," John smiled, his hands rubbing lightly up and down Sherlock's arms, "After all, Sherlock has put a lot of time into training you… I'd hate for him to have to start again with someone else."

To be continued…

OMG – the internet at home has TOTALLY FAILED! I can't connect to ANYTHING! (So I'm stealing the net at work – it's my lunch break I swear!)

Good news for you though, because that means you get all of the backlogged updates in one hit!


	7. Firey discoveries

**Writing on the Wall 7 (Sherlock BBC fanfic)**

December 3rd, 19:30

Current Mood: guess

Current Music: Nightbook

**Warning – SLASH sex scene at start of chapter – SERIOUSLY!**

With the crime scene off limits until it had cooled down – in both the magical and literal sense – John had hailed them a taxi and directed it back to Baker Street. Sherlock had sat with his legs crossed and his arms folded about himself, staring resolutely out of the window. John left him be, neither one of them in the mood for conversation after the one at the crime scene, getting out to unlock the door while Sherlock settled the fare. He sped up when he heard his lover enter the house, grinning as Sherlock practically chased him up the stairs to John's bedroom. His breath rushed out of him with a 'woof' as Sherlock tackled him to the bed, twisting so they lay side by side and kissing him urgently. The hard length pressed to John's thigh begged for attention and he obliged it, providing just the right amount of pressure and friction to distract his lover as they rocked gently on the bed, anticipation building.

They wrestled for a moment, trying to get each others clothes off, until John had enough of the unusually clumsy fingers struggling with his buttons and eeled from the bed and stripped, dropping things without a care and leaning down to do the same for Sherlock. This wouldn't take long, and John grabbed the lube, pushing his lover's thighs apart and kneeling between them, using his mouth on the weeping cock in front of him while his fingers teased and stretched Sherlock's entrance. The thin genius wriggled and moaned, arching to get more of the sensations that were driving him towards the thin edge of pleasure. John kept at it for a good few minutes, delighting in the reactions he could draw from Sherlock when he was like this, open and abandoned to their pleasure.

"Roll over," John ordered roughly when Sherlock was reduced to nearly silent, incoherent pleas, removing his hands and mouth and grabbing for the lube once more. Sherlock groaned his eager approval and flung himself onto his front, drawing one leg up to give his aching member some breathing room. He looked back over his shoulder at John, hands braced at shoulder height, pupils wide and skin flushed, shivering eagerly. John grinned and mounted him gently, one hand tangled in Sherlock's fingers, the other tilting his hip just so. He leant down and sank his teeth lightly into Sherlock's shoulder – not enough to break skin, but certainly hard enough to pinch – rolling his hips in a steady movement that drove them both mad. Sherlock was moaning beneath him, just the way John liked to hear his lover as they thrust together. There was no need for roughness – John was a gentle owner and took care of that which was his. It was one reason that Sherlock could let go as he did now, keening into the mattress as John pushed him steadily towards the edge. The veteran released his teeth from Sherlock's shoulder, bringing his mouth up to his partner's ear instead.

"Touch yourself," he ordered. Sherlock shuddered beneath him and obeyed, his hand moving clumsily in time to John's thrusts, panting harshly for a moment and then shouting, his body arching in ecstasy as he came. John grunted and followed: the pressure of Sherlock's orgasm on his cock too much for him to hold out. He managed not to crush Sherlock beneath him as he collapsed to the mattress, drawing his lover to curl on his side, still pressed back to chest, wrapping him in John's arms.

"Mine," John muttered and got an agreeing hum from the man still shaking in front of him.

Geoff wished he hadn't noticed that both of the consultants had changed their clothes when they returned later that afternoon. They certainly seemed back to their usual selves, Sherlock leading the way, his eyes roaming restlessly as he looked over the building.

"How's Anderson?" John asked as they reached Geoff, hands in his pockets. Anderson had – very early into John's association with Sherlock – insisted that the doctor put his hands in his pockets at crime scenes so he didn't leave behind any latent fingerprints. Geoff had offered the doctor latex gloves at each scene, but John seemed to have an aversion to the things, only putting them on if he was going to physically examine something and removing them quickly once done.

"Still unconscious. He's got some burns, which will heal, and they think there's nerve damage to the hand he touched the door with – it keeps on twitching and shaking," Geoff muttered and almost missed the look of dawning realisation on Sherlock's face. John sent the man a _look_ that silenced him before he'd had a chance to speak, shaking his head in a 'not here' gesture.

"Are we clear to go in?" Sherlock asked instead. Geoff filed that look away for later and nodded his head.

"It's still a bit hot in there – and slippery from the water – but you can go in," he nodded, "The crime scene guys are already there, and the arson investigator."

"So they'll have destroyed the scene completely by now," Sherlock huffed, and stalked into the building. John matched pace with Geoff, clearly recognising the DI had questions that needed answering.

"Why make it blow up?" Geoff frowned, "They've never left a physical booby trap before."

"Two reasons – they wanted to take as many of the people trying to catch them out of the game as possible," John scowled, "Because they can't afford to be caught now, not so close to their goals. Secondly, they were trying to identify the mage working against them. While the community knows that I'm helping the Yard with this, most of them don't know me on sight."

"How do they know you're a mage, then?" Geoff asked, cataloguing the information away rapidly. The threat to his people made him more determined than ever to catch these buggers.

"When I arrived in London I … introduced myself via a little ritual. It's like… a dog peeing on lamp posts in a way – I left enough of my magical scent around to alert people that I was in the area. That way the current mage could challenge me, or contact me if they so desired, and the lower orders knew that there was a 'new kid' in town. The scent – for lack of a better term – identifies my status and my intentions to those around me," John was faintly pink.

"Please tell me the first analogy was not literal," Geoff teased, knowing full well it wasn't, "I'm not going to discover a public indecency charge in your file am I?"

John growled at him, his cheeks quite red now and Geoff grinned, savouring the moment against the sight they were about to see. Burned corpses were never pleasant.

"As you can see they recorded the screams we heard and then rigged the player to go off at a certain time," Sherlock announced from inside the central crime scene, "And the blade is here too."

The blade was not a straight one. It was a double sided wavy affair – the sort you'd see in a science fiction show. Sherlock was wearing two sets of gloves and Geoff snapped on a second pair before taking it very carefully from the consulting detective. John took a couple of steps back as he did and Geoff frowned.

"Is it dangerous?" he asked, faintly alarmed that they were handling the equivalent of contaminated goods without proper protection.

"Not to us – consider it as if he was allergic," Sherlock replied at once, peering over at his partner for a moment, then looking back at Lestrade, "It was found at the ignition point for the fire."

"That makes sense," John nodded, "Geoff at some point the people we're hunting will make an attempt to retrieve these knives – we need to take steps to secure them."

"Got it," Geoff nodded and put the knife into a cylinder, sealing and marking it automatically, "Is there any way to narrow down where our last crime scene will be?"

"I've been analysing the scenes," the bland statement probably covered a multitude of magical meanings, "I need a few more data points from this one and then I should be able to tell you with some degree of accuracy where and when."

"In a format that will lead to a warrant?" Geoff asked hopefully and then sagged when John shook his head, "Well I want to know anyway. I may not be able to stop them with the law behind me, but I want these people caught, dammit."

"I'll get back to you," the promise was one that he knew John would keep, so Geoff let the subject drop for now.

As they left the scene, John appeared to remember an appointment and hailed a cab of his own, leaving Sherlock and Geoff behind, slightly stunned.

"Anderson's been cursed hasn't he?" Geoff muttered as he ushered Sherlock into his unmarked car, "The hand tremor."

"Yes," Sherlock folded his arms and piercing him with an intensive gaze. Whatever he was looking for he seemed to find because he continued on with the rest of the comment hanging over him, "So has John. Have you ever noticed how his left hand trembles now and then?"

"I thought that was because he'd been shot in the left shoulder – nerve damage or something," Geoff navigated through the traffic carefully, not really paying attention to the cars around him when the conversation was so much more interesting; probably not the best attitude for someone who was driving.

"So did I," Sherlock sighed, "He also had a psychosomatic limp – remember the cane? – but that cleared up during the Pink case."

Geoff swallowed a grin – Sherlock was always careful not to refer to that case by the blog title: it was his way of protesting it.

"You think the limp was related… or a second curse," Geoff nodded, "That would make sense. If he'd gotten into something nasty in Afghanistan then there is no guarantee that he'd have had the right sort of backup to keep him safe… and John is not the type of man to hold back… so his injuries may not all be related to the Taliban out there."

"Precisely," Sherlock sighed, "He is extremely loyal to his friends… if they were threatened by something only he could negate…"

"I wouldn't want to be in the enemies shoes," Geoff agreed wholeheartedly.

Mycroft bit back a sigh as he shut the office door behind him. Really, when would these politicians learn that it was best to allow him to arrange the countries affairs and not interfere? He wasn't entirely sure the new chap would be workable – something would have to be done soon…

John Watson was sitting behind his desk. Mycroft took all of a millisecond to process this and reach for his personal alarm – set in the handle of his umbrella and thus at his fingertips at all times – when the man spoke quietly.

"Jaffa cakes."

Mycroft froze, his skin prickling uncomfortably. John smiled pleasantly at him – much as a snake smiles at the mouse in front of it – and gestured for Mycroft to put the umbrella down. The British Government did so, thinking quickly as he did.

"I take it you're familiar with the file?" John asked, not moving from his relaxed position in Mycroft's seat. The elder Holmes nodded and then sighed when he realised that more of a response was required.

"An extremely ill-advised study of magic practitioners," he stated it simply, without apology, "It was shut down fifteen years ago when the supposedly well hidden facility was attacked. I take it you were one of the victims?"

"No," John's smile became a lot less pleasant, "My sister was. She used to be a witch of average ability – now she's a mundane alcoholic. I was the one who shut down the facility. Single handed."

Mycroft felt as if he'd been doused in cold water. The facility had been taken down without any casualties, the entire staff had simply been found unconscious and slightly amnesiac, though the three lead scientists had all been found to have suffered some form of mental breakdown. The prognosis for their recovery was very limited. Every data file in the place had been destroyed and the four test subjects had simply disappeared.

"Now I see why you did not find my kidnapping and threats very frightening when we first met. Fifteen years ago… you'd have been…" Mycroft couldn't muster more than a whisper as the power of the man in front of him became clear.

"Thirteen. Just beginning to really come into my powers. I didn't reach full strength for another four years," John murmured in that pleasant tone that Mycroft was beginning to hate with a vengeance. Menace shouldn't sound nice and reasonable, but that is exactly how John sounded.

"Now, about the other day," the pleasantries were over as John clearly came to the point of the visit, "I understand that you are … wary of those that practice my craft, and so you should be. However, take it as an oath that I will never hurt, nor allow another to hurt so long as there is breath in my body, Sherlock. I will leave Sherlock the instant he tells me to, and not a moment before. I will not tolerate another … intervention… in our affairs on your part. I trust you understand me?"

"I do," Mycroft nodded, a thousand schemes already passing through his mind. John was untouchable in the physical sense, and threats would not work, but there were other ways to make his life increasingly difficult. His pension, his work… all was vulnerable to Mycroft's agents.

"Good," John stood and straightened his jacket, "And to save you time, and a nasty surprise, I should inform you that I was the soldier that took a bullet for the future King in Afghanistan. I don't know what you were thinking, sending the lad out to that particular province, but no real harm done, I suppose. So you can save your efforts when it comes to the pension and the job, hmm?"

"Very well," Mycroft spoke through a dry throat, reclassifying the man in front of him as untouchable. John nodded and walked sedately around the desk, passing Mycroft casually and aiming for the door. Mycroft turned to keep him in sight and froze once more when something else appeared to occur to his brother's partner.

"I should warn you that if Anthea – or whatever her name is – ever lays so much as a finger upon Sherlock I will remove it from her body. The same applies if she glances at him or even breathes in his direction. Whatever part of her touches him is forfeit… you may want to pass that on…"

The door clicked shut quietly behind him.

It was several moments before Mycroft could muster the will to move once more.

To be continued…


	8. Breaking through

**Writing on the Wall 8 (Sherlock BBC fanfic)**

December 4th, 9:25

Current Mood: intent

Current Music: Nightbook

**AN – see if you can spot the very subtle reference to 'the great game' in this one.**

After the crime scene at the fire house, John and Sherlock seemed to swap personalities for a short time. Sherlock had been unable to find anything at the scorched/drenched scene that would help him track their criminals and the forensics team had risen up against him in Anderson's memory and prevented him from obtaining any samples. John had shaken his head in warning, indicating that the spell web was still active enough to cause them problems. He had led Sherlock out, spent a moment in discussion with him and Lestrade, then disappeared for an afternoon, returning home quite smug and uncommunicative.

He'd taken himself off to the disused box room opposite his bedroom and sealed the door. Mysterious noises and odours seeped through the cracks in the door jamb, but John had established long ago that if he was sealed in that room he was not to be disturbed. Sherlock knew he was practicing magic and knew that however much he wanted to watch, he was not allowed. He'd never seen John perform a proper ritual: it wasn't precisely forbidden, it was just something his lover preferred to do in private. Even the concocting of poultices was done up there – the completed article brought downstairs and stored in a small wooden chest that they kept in the cupboard above the sink.

Sherlock had been left to putter about downstairs. He'd sulked on the couch for a bit, taken some nicotine patches and serenaded the skull with some of his best improvisations. He was in the midst of seeing how many spoons of sugar he could suspend in a single cup of tea when John came downstairs, smelling of snow and wet earth.

"I wouldn't recommend drinking that," John muttered, "You'll probably need a dose of insulin."

"Mmmn," Sherlock muttered, sticking his nose in John's neck and sniffing avidly. He liked it when John smelt of magic – his scent was always crisp and sharp and pleasant. John stood still and let him sniff to his hearts content, wrapping a welcoming arm around Sherlock's hips and tilting his head obligingly.

"You're weird, you know that?" he sounded amused as Sherlock drew back, "Most people don't sniff their lovers like that."

"Most people's lovers don't have a magically enhanced scent," Sherlock replied from John's neck, "You always smell good after you've been in the box room."

"Magic doesn't always smell good, Sherlock, think of the crime scenes for a moment. The scent wasn't unpleasant just because a woman had died there," John warned him, and Sherlock nodded, filing the information away.

"I need the laptop and a cup of tea that hasn't been poisoned with an overdose of sugar," John announced, "Will we be seeing Geoff tonight?"

"Yes," Sherlock nodded, "I told him to come along at about eight. I thought you'd be back by then at the latest."

"Good, with a bit of luck I'll have narrowed things down and we can get a plan in place to stop these two young idiots before they really bollocks things up," John reached for the kettle, but Sherlock pushed his hand away.

"I'll do it," he frowned, "You trust me don't you?"

"Absolutely," his John replied, no hesitation in his tone as he turned back to the front room to find the laptop, leaving Sherlock in the kitchen with a small smile upon his face.

Sherlock made tea, turned the telly on, turned it off again two minutes later, paced around the room with the skull under his arm, took another nicotine patch and ordered take away while John clicked away at the laptop, opening and closing tabs on the browser so quickly that Sherlock began to suspect his lover was actually reading the _machine_ instead of the text. Sherlock had always found John's laptop to be a bit temperamental. It had a series of quirks and hiccups that he'd never encountered before: what he'd first put down to dodgy anti-virus software or a bad patch on the drive he now suspected was magical interference. Either the machine didn't run well because its _owner_ was putting out some sort of energy field that interfered with its workings, or the machine didn't run well when he used it because _he_ _wasn't_ putting out a magical energy field.

Naturally, that hadn't stopped him from using John's laptop whenever the fancy took him – he had simply learned to work around the quirks.

Lestrade arrived at the same time as the take away – curry tonight – and followed Sherlock up to the front room happily.

"I haven't had a decent curry in ages," the DI smiled, going into the kitchen and getting plates and cutlery as Sherlock laid the food on the coffee table and prised lids off containers. He wasn't sure he was happy about the level of familiarity Lestrade had with the layout of their home, but didn't have time for a tantrum over it as he had to entice John away from the laptop.

"I don't like this role reversal at all," Sherlock informed him as John moved reluctantly to the couch, "I'm supposed to be the one that gets too involved to eat."

"Payback's a bitch," the faint mutter from Lestrade's portion of the room made Sherlock frown, though the DI pulled a very good _what did I say?_ face when Sherlock scowled in his direction.

"We heard from Grace Willard's family," Lestrade spoke up when the meal was finished. John – who was the main provider of conversation in the house – had been too preoccupied to fill that role tonight and Sherlock had been too busy obsessing about the amount John ate. Magic always took too much out of his lover; he needed the calories to combat the minor loss of energy he'd experienced in whatever he'd been doing this afternoon. Sherlock had found out the hard way that John lost all appetite when they were involved in a case that had magic in it – his lover had collapsed in a heap in the middle of a busy street as they walked to a crime scene once; it hadn't taken much to diagnose low blood sugar and a lack of basic nutrition. Sherlock had hauled the man into a diner and made him eat, watching like a hawk when John had protested that he wasn't hungry after only two mouthfuls. They'd been interrupted at the end of the meal by a phone call, but Sherlock had never forgotten that terrible moment when John had lost all colour and collapsed.

"When will they be collecting her remains?" Sherlock asked, watching John finish the last of his serving with satisfaction. John rolled his eyes in a _stop fussing_ kind of way that Sherlock ignored. He liked fussing over John. It was… stimulating.

"They won't," Lestrade's words shocked him back into the conversation, "Apparently they washed their hands of her when she signed out of the hospital they'd committed her to."

"We'll claim her, then," John announced, "It's the least we can do."

Sherlock nodded, reminded once more of why he loved John Watson the way he did. It had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with who John was. The man had almost nothing in the way of savings, but he'd spend them all gladly on a homeless woman who'd sung for him. He'd do it for her, but also for Sherlock, who had formed a connection with her of sorts.

"I thought you might," Lestrade nodded, "The morgue has your contact details. They'll probably give you a call tomorrow."

"Right," John got up and started clearing away the food containers, Lestrade rising automatically to help.

"Have either of you had any luck tracking the next move of our targets?" Lestrade asked as he put the used cutlery in the sink.

"I haven't," Sherlock didn't like to admit it, but knew there was no point in pretending to more knowledge than he had, "They're not leaving the right sort of traces for me to work on."

Lestrade nodded heavily, looking sympathetic, "Our lab isn't coming up with much either. We'll be able to nail them to the scene once we have them in custody, but we don't have anything that will lead back to them now. All we've really got to go on are some random hair and fibre samples that are either too generic to pin down or individual to be of use without something to compare them to. These kids aren't in the system already – or at least their DNA isn't – which makes proving a case to get a warrant virtually impossible."

"Which means we need to catch them in the act," Sherlock sighed, "It's the only way you'll be able to prosecute."

"You don't usually care about that side of things," Lestrade's suspicion was palpable, "What's with the change of heart?"

"I'm shortly going to be planning a funeral for someone who never did anyone any harm because of these two," Sherlock snapped, "And people say _I'm_ an insensitive monster!"

"Bloody hell!" John yelped, leaping up from where he was sitting in front of the laptop once more, "That's it! Lestrade, I know where they are! They're going to be summoning the demon tonight!"

"What?" Lestrade looked as stunned as Sherlock felt, though the thin sleuth didn't waste time gawping, heading for their coats instead, "I thought we had a couple more days."

"No, no, no, they've been building up to tonight – we're in the first day of the full moon tonight – how could I be so blind!" John ran to the coat that Sherlock was holding out to him, Lestrade following in his wake, spluttering questions that no one was listening to.

"Game on!" Sherlock called to Mrs Hudson as all three of them ran past her, slamming the front door on her fond tutt of disapproval.

To be continued…


	9. A watery grave

**Writing on the Wall 9 (Sherlock BBC fanfic)**

December 4th, 15:55

Current Mood: bouncy

Current Music: Nightbook

John had taken one look at the cabbie and barked, "The old Limehouse Docks, Phil."

'Phil' had nodded and sent the cab rocketing away at a speed Geoff hadn't thought the funny shaped vehicles were capable of. Sherlock had almost slid into Geoff's lap as they rounded a corner on what felt like two wheels and the resulting confusion had a distinctly out of place air of comedy about it.

It didn't increase Geoff's confidence when he noticed Phil typing a text one handed as they drove. He knew Sherlock had also noticed it and raised an eyebrow in a 'what do you think' gesture. Sherlock had nodded curtly – suspicion confirmed then. Phil was also a user of magic – he'd been able to hear the intent behind the vague address and was taking them to the best place in London to summon a water demon. The text was probably alerting other users of magic that the local mage was on the hunt.

"Full moon has the greatest effect on the tide which is why they're going tonight, right?" Geoff guessed and watched Sherlock roll his eyes. John was sitting sideways on the fold down seat, leaning forward to gauge their progress and didn't respond.

"It depends on the demon, apparently," the thin genius muttered, frustration clearly apparent on his face. He sent John, the source of the frustration, a glare, "He won't tell me about them. Says it's not a fit topic for polite conversation. Nothing I say can persuade him to change his mind either."

"Finally met your match, then?" Geoff grinned cheekily at the glare that comment garnered, "Good – it's about time you had some normal life to be going on with."

"Oh, normal… boring," Sherlock rolled his eyes, "What about this situation is normal?"

"Trust me, Sherlock, for you… this is normal," Geoff was extremely pleased to be able to produce that sentence and mean it. John snorted in laughter – clearly he was listening to them at least – then straightened and barked,

"Left!" at the cabbie. A series of rapid directional commands followed – Geoff had the feeling that John was once more following traces that the two men sharing the cab with him couldn't see. Neither could the cabbie if the slight delay in the turns was any indication. The cab came screeching to a halt three minutes later, with Phil swearing under his breath. Whatever it was that John could see was now apparent to the cabby – who was clearly not pleased to be so close.

"You lot, stay here," John barked, bolting from the cab.

"Bollocks to that," Sherlock replied, leaping over Geoff, who followed, instinct screaming at him that he had to be there for this, no matter what. He followed the two men at a flat sprint, taking care to step where Sherlock was stepping when he realised the man in front of him was taking care to step in John's footprints.

He almost cannoned into Sherlock when the man came to a shuddering halt, sliding nimbly to the side to avoid the taller man and braking to a stop himself. It took him a moment to catch his breath and then his eyes made sense of what Sherlock was looking at and he swore under his breath. The scene before him would not have been out of place in one of those horror flicks his brother enjoyed watching so much.

London was an old town – there had been people living in some form of settlement here for thousands of years – and as such had a lot of old structures dotted about the place, unused and forgotten. There was almost a whole city worth of disused tunnels and train platforms beneath the ground for starters, and in areas like this, where the river flowed, there were quite a few unused piers, jetties and docks, poking out over the water, crumbling away into disuse.

On this disused pier, there were two slender forms, a tall boy with gangly arms and legs and a slender girl with long blonde hair and the sort of figure that would get her into trouble if her parents weren't on the ball. They were chanting something – Geoff couldn't make out the words and from the way that Sherlock was straining beside him; the consulting detective couldn't either – with a rope at their feet. The girl was wearing something wrapped in a complicated pattern around her arms and shoulders – a length of fabric the same colour as one of the fibres found in Grace Willard's teeth. This was the length of cloth that had been shoved down the three victim's throats to suffocate them. Geoff felt sick at the thought that a young girl – someone who should have been giggling at the movies or shopping with her mates – had chosen to wrap such an object around herself as if it was nothing more than another fashion accessory.

In front of them, at the end of the pier, the water was roiling. The boy, who stood inside a complicated diagram made of candles, cut his own hand with a short, thick bladed knife and flicked the blood forward into the water, causing it to turn black. The water began to froth and heave as the girl took her own knife – identical to the boys – and cut her own hand, adding her blood to the mix. The boy pulled a jar from his pocket, pulled the lid off and sent the contents into the frothing mess.

"Blood, from the other victims," Sherlock muttered, "They kept some. John had wondered."

"Why can't we get closer?" Geoff asked. There was something in the way; it was pressing him back into the shelter of the wall against which Sherlock already stood.

"John," Sherlock growled, "He wants us safe."

"You know, most people would be grateful," Geoff felt he had to remind the other man of this – after all, John was simply doing what any other spouse would, protecting his partner from danger. Sherlock shot him an impatient look and Geoff shook his head. The thin genius clearly wasn't interested in advice from a well experienced man. Let him find out the hard way then…

At the end of the pier, _something_ climbed out of the water. It was glistening and dark and slimy and had too many mouths and limbs for Geoff to be comfortable with it. The air around them picked up the stench of the creature and both men gagged: Geoff realised that the teens on the pier were retching too. Looks like their inexperience hadn't prepared them for the magnitude of their actions – a thought that was not at all comforting.

"Come _on_ John! Where are you?" Sherlock fretted through the hand he'd clapped over his nose and mouth.

"The web spell must be harder to get through when the people who built it are still in there," Geoff guessed, craning his neck to see if he could spot the veteran. Sherlock made a disgusted noise of agreement, also peering about in an effort to locate his lover.

"There!" he pointed suddenly, relief in every inch of his body, his voice containing a note of hope that was quite touching really. John Watson was sliding himself down onto the pier, placing his hands and feet very carefully as he negotiated the last of the invisible web.

The _Thing_ had managed to cover several metres by this time, scenting the air and growling at the two teens. The growl was as horrifying as the creature, sounding like it was travelling through water to reach their ears. The boy and girl had stretched their hands out to each other, not quite touching. Geoff could see that they had laid a bloodstained rope in a complicated pattern between them, like some sort of trap. There was a short length of it, cut off and abandoned behind them; it was this that John reached first, squatting and running a hand over it without touching. He nodded once and picked the rope up as the teens started trying to entice the _Thing_ into their rope trap.

It was at this point that things went wrong. Geoff was never quite sure and John would never say, on the grounds that they'd suffered enough and what did it matter now, who flubbed their part of the ritual, but the _Thing_ was suddenly a lot closer to the teens and not at all affected by the rope that three people had died in. The boy shouted, panic in his tone, the candles flaring up around him in what Geoff realised was supposed to be some sort of protective fire barrier. Only moments later they burned out, unable to cope against the sheer power of the demon they'd summoned. The girl also wavered, running to protect the boy by standing in front of him, which unfortunately collapsed whatever web they were trying to weave around the _Thing_. Despite the distance between him and the teens, Geoff could clearly see the moment of realisation on their faces: the moment they went from being in control to simply trying to survive.

"They've lost it," Sherlock moaned, sounding terrified in a way that Geoff never wanted to hear again, though he was feeling exactly the same way himself, "John, _get out of there_."

It was a useless thing to say, the sort of thing a man said when the one they loved was in harms way and he was helpless to save them. Geoff knew that there was no way John would let the _Thing_ hurt those children, just as there was no way he'd turn it loose on an unsuspecting London. He had wrapped the ends of the short length of rope around his hands and now he stepped forward, the rope stretched out as if it was a barrier in front of him.

Geoff saw the teens startle as John passed them without a glance, his voice raising steadily, the words indistinct as always when he was speaking his magic but the meaning crystal clear: _piss off back where you came from._

The _Thing_ took exception. It roared again, louder than before, the sound getting into Geoff's head and _squeezing_. He couldn't help but cry out, hands flying up to hold the sides of his face, dimly aware that Sherlock was reeling beside him, that the teens on the pier had collapsed to their knees. He got a glimpse of John, standing upright and strong, apparently unaffected by the noise and advancing steadily. As his hearing cleared he could once more distinguish John's voice from the noise around them, though the words were no clearer than before.

The pressure was getting worse, and Geoff thought for a moment that his eyes were also being affected because it seemed like there was an aura of colour shifting and morphing around John. A quick glance at Sherlock showed that the phenomenon was restricted to those on the pier, the now cowering teens and the man that stood between them and the death they had summoned from its watery grave. Even as he watched, the colours around the teens seemed to bleed away from them while they cried and writhed at the feel of it leaving them, leaching into the rope still stretched between John's hands, making it positively shine.

Then John took a step forward. The air reverberated as if a gong had been struck and the _Thing_ cowered back. Again and again John stepped forward, his lips moving with calm purpose, his stance inexorable. The water at the end of the pier was frothing once more, but this time it was _reaching_ for the _Thing_, forming tendrils that searched restlessly before seeming to catch its scent and zero in on their prize.

Just as the tendrils of water struck the _Thing_ roared its defiance and lashed out, several of its limbs flying out and striking John so hard that the impact echoed across the space between them with a sharp crack. He didn't move, didn't flinch, didn't even seem to feel the blows as he took that final step forward, releasing one end of the rope and swinging it over his head in a circle before letting fly. The short length of rope unravelled before their eyes, forming an impossibly large net that restrained the _Thing_, the impact knocking it backwards into the water.

In the ringing silence that followed, Geoff could have sworn he heard a woman singing, her voice like a bell drifting over crisp snow…

"… '_T was Grace that led me safe, thus far, and Grace shall lead me home…._"

The pressure that had been pounding in their heads disappeared at once. On the pier, John swayed like a man who has been leaning into a stiff wind, only to have it suddenly cut off. The teens on the pier could be heard sobbing as the water stilled once more to the usual ebb and flow of the Thames. Then the pressure holding Geoff and Sherlock back disappeared as if it had never been there and John fell to the planks beneath him like a puppet with its strings cut.

To be continued…


	10. Almost the end

**Writing on the Wall 10 (Sherlock BBC fanfic)**

December 5th, 07:55

Current Mood: frustrated

Current Music: Nightbook

Sherlock was off and running before Geoff could think of stopping him, the DI only a few steps behind. The teens were lying in unconscious heaps on the rotting planks, but Sherlock leapt over them without a glance, his concentration wholly taken up with John Watson. Called by reluctant duty, Geoff stopped by the teens, pulling his phone out and calling for backup, though he could already hear sirens in the distance. Clearly the noise that had so plagued him and Sherlock had been heard by others. A quick check showed them to be unmarked – so whatever had knocked them out wasn't something that he could treat with his limited first aid knowledge.

There was movement at the land end of the pier and he glanced up, spotting Phil the cabby and the woman with pink hair from the British Museum hurrying towards them. Further off he could see people melting away into the shadows – looks like the text network had alerted plenty of magic practitioners to come and see the show. Geoff shot the departing ones a contemptuous glare; he had no patience for people who saw something wrong happening before them and did nothing about it.

Behind him, Sherlock was calling John's name in an ever increasingly broken voice. Geoff cuffed the teens together, and then cuffed the boy to a nearby pole before turning and scrabbling to Sherlock's side. If John died here, someone would need to be on hand to restrain Sherlock.

John was pale, his breathing torturous, with blood seeping from his mouth. It was obvious that he'd suffered several broken bones and highly probable that there were internal injuries as well. Sherlock was resting long pale fingers very delicately against John's cheek – barely brushing skin that was almost transparent with shock.

The cabby and the librarian arrived, coming straight to John.

"By the lord harry, he's still alive? After a hit like that?" Phil gasped, "What the hell is he?"

"A mage," Geoff snapped, "Someone you totally left to deal with this mess on his own, by the way."

"No mere mage could have done what he did – didn't you see the rope? Hear the singing?" the librarian was holding her hands out indecisively, obviously wanting to touch but not sure where or how to without causing further pain and or damage. Sherlock's possessive glare wasn't helping matters either.

"The rope shone, and that was Dotty singing… John loved to hear that song," Sherlock's expression gentled as he looked back down at the badly hurt man he was protecting.

"The rope shone with the children's magic – they're mundane now. They'll never be able to perform another spell again," the librarian said tartly, "A normal mage can't do that single-handed. It's a summary judgement spell and usually it takes two mage or magi, or lots of witches and wizards to complete."

"At least I won't have to worry about them magicking their way out of custody," Geoff muttered, the inanity out there before he could sensor it. The sirens got closer and the librarian glanced over her shoulder.

"We have to go," she muttered, "Tell the rest of your lot that he was to be the kids' next victim and you got here just as there was an explosion. The candles are doused in something volatile to make them burn hotter than normal and there's enough residue around to support the statement. I hope he survives… we could use a proper leader in the area."

She got up with a last lingering look at John before catching Phil by the arm and almost dragging him off into the shadows. Geoff lost track of them instantly, making him think that one of them had used a spell to conceal their whereabouts. He glanced around the pier. The rope and the cloth used to suffocate the other victims were present and would probably have enough trace elements from the teens to pin the crime firmly on them. Any allegations of actual magic being performed could be dismissed as claims from a pair of unbalanced minds. Provided John's injuries were merely physical – mundane, he supposed was the word – then there was no chance that the man's reputation would be damaged.

An ambulance pulled up and Geoff took one last look at John before standing and heading for the road, calling and waving his arms to get their attention. Magic or not, right now John needed help and if this was the only way Geoff could contribute then this is what he'd do.

&%&%&%&

There had only been two occasions in Mycroft's life when he had seen his brother truly terrified. The first had been at the age of four, when the house had caught fire and Sherlock had become trapped on the roof of the family mansion. The child had been old enough to fully realise the danger and smart enough to be able to track both the flames and the eventual outcome of the efforts of the adults who were trying to save him. He had leapt across a four storey high gap to the adjacent neighbour's house, breaking an arm and leg upon landing. The spot he had leapt from had burst into flame only moments after he left it.

Now, Mycroft was watching a different sort of terror. He had known that whatever else John Watson was, his regard for Sherlock was honest. Mycroft had assumed that the emotions on Sherlock's side ran more to infatuation – possibly coupled with curiosity about the hidden world of magic. He had not expected Sherlock's regard to be based in any way, shape or form in love. That he was in love with Watson was now undeniable. Unfortunately, by all reports John Watson was close to death from severe internal injuries and Sherlock was beside himself.

He had known about Watson's admission to the hospital almost before it had happened and had sent an aide – not Anthea, he wouldn't risk it, even with the man supposedly unconscious – down to monitor the situation. He'd been surprised to hear that Sherlock had appeared visibly distressed – so distressed that the staff at the hospital was treating him with all the sympathy one would expect to see for a spouse with a critically injured partner. DI Lestrade was a regular visitor, as was the landlady, who had been seen embracing Sherlock _without resistance_ on his part. Several fellow doctors had also popped in and out and Mycroft was aware that the Palace also had an aide in the area.

By day two, John had sunk deep into a coma, from which the prognosis of recovery was not good. Reports on Sherlock's state had become alarming and Mycroft had taken himself down to the hospital to see what he could do for his younger brother. They may disagree over several fundamental things, but the boy was his family and he didn't like to see him distressed.

Sherlock was huddled in a chair in the ICU, one hand wrapped firmly around John's. In the three days since Mycroft had last seen the man he had become skin and bone – literally – his skin so pale he was almost blending into the sheets upon which he lay. Sherlock was unshaven, clearly hadn't slept or eaten and was so visibly distraught that Mycroft simultaneously cursed John Watson for letting his little brother suffer this pain, even as he thanked the man for teaching the child who had declared himself a sociopath to love. As much as he wanted to see Sherlock free from the hazards of John Watson's world he had to acknowledge that the man himself was exactly what his brother needed. Mycroft had made it his job in life to see that Sherlock got what he needed and so, although it was against his wishes, he would see to it that Sherlock at least had a chance of retaining the man he loved.

"No," the whimper was truly tragic, as was the way Sherlock increased his grip on his lovers' hand, "Not leaving him."

"No," Mycroft sighed, allowing regret to colour his voice, "I can see that. Nor would I ask you to, when you're in such a state."

"Go away then," the defiance was weak, but it was better than the apathy he'd seen in Sherlock's eyes when he'd entered.

"And so I shall, brother," Mycroft murmured, "But before I do, I will remind you of something that John Watson once said to me. _I will leave Sherlock the instant he tells me to, and not a moment before_."

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, light kindling in his eyes before turning his head to the figure lying in the bed. He unwound himself from the almost defensive huddle he'd drawn into, putting his feet on the floor and hitching the plastic hospital chair closer to the bed. One hand came up to touch John's head, the fingers feathering over short hair with tender care while he lowered his mouth to John's ear.

"_Stay here. Come back to me. I __don't__ give you permission to go."_

To be finished…


	11. The Yards version of Google

**Writing on the Wall 11 (Sherlock BBC fanfic)**

December 6th, 14:55

Current Mood: accomplished

Current Music: Snow Patrol

Geoff followed the team up the familiar stairs, sighing in frustration as they barged into Sherlock Holmes' front room and started searching the place.

"Ah, Lestrade, right on time," Sherlock called, sounding vastly amused. The DI began to consider other ways in which he could try to enforce some sort of professional cooperation on the man – clearly his days of being annoyed by the fake drugs busts were coming to an end.

"You know, you could just save us all the time and effort and share your findings in a professional manner," he scolded from the doorway, "Good afternoon, John."

"Hello, Geoff," John Watson smiled from his place on the couch, propped up on a pillow with a rug over his legs. He was still pale and terribly underweight, but in the two months since the conclusion of the case that was still sending shocks through the upper classes of London he had improved dramatically.

There had been a time that the doctors had given up on John Watson. He'd slipped into a deep coma that the medical personnel attending him had predicted would lead to his death. Sherlock had glued himself to John's bedside, spending every waking moment talking to the man, cajoling, ordering and demanding that he wake up and return to Sherlock's side.

John had done so in the middle of an argument, which was typical of the mans timing. Geoff had appeared in the hospital room and suggested to Sherlock that he go with Mrs Hudson, who was in the waiting room, to get something to eat. He had promised to remain with John while Sherlock was gone as a way to reassure the thin genius that his lover would not be left alone.

Sherlock had lost his temper. He'd ranted on at the top of his lungs about not needing food, or a break or anything else that people kept trying to force upon him, there was only one thing he needed right now and he wasn't going anywhere. John had twitched at that, raising a hand off the bed. Sherlock had been too incensed and too distraught to see it, it had taken John latching that hand onto Sherlock's thigh to draw his attention. The look of shock on Sherlock's face would have been funny in any other setting.

"So where is it?" John asked Sherlock patiently, "I'd really rather not tidy the flat after another bust at the minute."

"I don't have anything I shouldn't," Sherlock protested, "I even handed in evidence that I found!"

"Yes, but you have yet to tell me precisely why I'm looking through the records of the last ten years for crimes involving a phone box, Sherlock. I'm not the Yards answer to Google and every time I ask you I get a different answer. The Super is expecting results and I'm tired of asking nicely," Geoff sighed.

"Fine!" Sherlock threw his hands up, "Send them away and I'll explain everything to you… even though its painfully obvious and even Anderson could work it out."

Anderson made a rude gesture from where he was shuffling through the contents of the bookcase; one hand shoved into his pocket. The tremors had eased off significantly, but it still shook from time to time and the man was rather sensitive about it. Geoff called the team off, sending them down the stairs and wincing as Donovan slammed the front door shut in a show of disgust. He had to stifle a grin when Mrs Hudson opened it moments later and started scolding the younger woman at the top her lungs, using that tone that only an exasperated mother could manage.

"That reminds me," he muttered and fished out the flat box he'd been carrying ever since the day he'd heard that John would live to return to Baker Street. He'd made himself a promise in the middle of that terrible case, and now was the ideal time to fulfil it.

"Congratulations on your marriage," he held the box out to Sherlock, "This is from me and the missus."

Sherlock gaped at him and John broke into peals of laughter where he lay on the couch. The consulting genius took the box gingerly, as if it were dangerous and crossed to sit on the edge of John's blanket, putting the box into the other mans lap.

"Well open it, then," he urged when John continued to snicker. The mages fingers stroked over the top of the box for a moment and Sherlock snatched it away with a cry.

"No! No magic!" he dropped the box onto the table as Geoff jumped in shock, "You're not strong enough – you can't afford to lose the energy!"

"I was tracing the texture, Sherlock, not using magic," John's voice was patient and calm. He drew Sherlock down to rest against his chest, folding the thin genius almost in half, "After the warning I had coming home from the hospital, I won't risk it for a while yet."

"Warning?" Geoff asked.

"He fainted – he was unconscious for three hours, in fact – because he used magic to update the status markers around Baker Street as we passed them in the cab. It shouldn't have bothered him at all – the energy use was no more than powering a 2 watt bulb," Sherlock said from where he was laying. He should have been uncomfortable – it certainly would have been uncomfortable if Geoff had tried to hold that position – but Sherlock seemed quite happy where he was. The thin genius reached out after a moment and held the box once more where John could get at it. The doctor pulled the lid off and delved under the tissue paper to come up with the silver letter opener that Mrs Lestrade had selected after Geoff had asked her about appropriate wedding presents for two men. She had selected something that looked a little like a dagger – which showed she'd paid attention when Geoff had ranted about Sherlock and his eccentricities.

"That's… quite nice, Geoff. Thank Mrs Lestrade for us, won't you?" John smiled, turning the letter opener in his hand to admire it. Sherlock reached out and took it from him, examining the edge for a moment and then leaping up. He swept a pile of letters from the coffee table and strode over to the mantelpiece, slapping the letters onto the mantle and then slamming the letter opener down to impale them. The end of it quivered in the air as he let go and he stood back to admire the effect even as John muttered a pained apology to Geoff.

Geoff rolled his eyes at John, showing that he wasn't upset at the idea of Sherlock being Sherlock.

"Now, Lestrade," the thin genius beamed, turning to face the DI, "About those phone boxes…"

FINISHED


End file.
